The word had no place in my vocabulary,
the fibers lacking respect to the present,
and wasn’t I greater than a miscalculation?
My floorboards, if laid to another array,
might rot quicker under a different owner,
the view and feng shui an aura unknown
and a mountainside different than expected,
like a recipe ruined by too much leisure
and too little forethought of the palate to come.
But I’ve learned to read the measurements,
and only a skewed deviation reigns:
a collage of errors never fatal but with a price,
lemons in an open wound unexpected,
or as forgiving as the rain at night,
always working not to mold tomorrow
but the man yet unmet and yet uncovered,
with only regret standing between us.



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