better than perfect

There are no straight lines

in nature, nothing so smooth,

nothing so sharp as what I make

repeatedly, every day, every hour

because I seek to perfect

that which already is.

Casting moulds to clone the self

in the class, on the board

drawing straight lines again

and again the rest follow.

There was only one Adam, as was Eve but

all are Adam and Eve today,

not the children, mind, we believe

we are those sinners flung from heaven.

Such arrogance as that of the sea

consuming, raging, all of this

inside us, you and me.

Spheres, so compact, so efficient,

but no, cubes we prefer

because they fit in everything.

Viewing life upside down

through a teardrop, do you think

maybe it is right side up instead?

But I hold melted sand in my hand, glass,

wavering my vision, it is perfect I say.

So let it be, I am right

only in this world, to think

I can make the mould better again.

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