There’s a

fragility acquired by

certain   things as they age: ideas,


People for       instance

show tiny          fissures

that blossom            and burst into complex patterns

across their faces,

showing deep into chasms far darker                           but

it’s all nothing: a million

tiny surface tensions        cracking out

along wood stressed by             sunlight

and heat,  slid out from                          under

against                                                    a tired eye trying to

blink. Meaning moves

between the cracks         you wish

nobody saw.


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