its like the tide that
never
comes back in
the hammer that
consistently
misses the nail
the bus that arrives
but never opens its
door
the wet match,
the bruised fruit,
the broken chair leg.
pieces of the almosts,
the unreliable,
the unfunctioning
the body without pulse,
the stagnant river,
the dull aphrodisiac.
somethings remain
unresolved, incomplete
each step on the ladder
breaks a rung
we get nowhere
or come crashing down
(image from m.facebook.com/artistswithoutborders)
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