Embracing Chinks

25.01.2011


’Tis heartening, the thought. . .
this scratch on my still new dive-watch —
scratch?
or mark of personality,
endearing it the more, making it uniquely
susceptible —

to the singing warmth pulsing under the skin of the universe —

like the bashfully o’ersize crusty hermit shambling among calcareous lodgings,
(for now the old quarters inadequately hide that disgraceful behind)
scuttling cautiously from light freedom into wee-larger shell.

Yet isn’t it after all
that nakedness that love can touch?
love, light as sun on skin, love, intensely burning?
isn’t it in crannied walls that mysterious flowers bloom?
isn’t it that vulnerability —

uneven slope of the hermit’s brow
sapient glint of grey in wild beard-bouquet
newspaper scattered table
shirt worn inside out
spilt tea and tears
tattered hat brimming with smell of wearer’s head
smiling crow’s feet —

that makes so much dearer a soul wearing reassuring imperfections
than unyielding loveliness of a marble god?

Glassy perfection, having six months flawlessly resisted my loving abruptness,
allowed a blemish on its lustrous face
accepting the flaw of my gaucherie,
accepting me.