where could this piece
(broken in haste) fit within
the grid that beautifies a night?
leaving you more unashamed,
even a little proud of emerged reds
that will never ever qualify as rubies.
we did not cut our feet on bickering’s edge
but the surface of your big toe swells like a captivated ear
enjoying modest breeze and public song
making the most out of
the rebellious propaganda in
your English teacher’s rock garden, standing and waiting
for your sheepish stumble
and some budding timbre that assures him enough
that the Last Word was never so ultimate.