PAST THE SELF

Not all good passes

with age and ticking hands.

In the beginning I

was in awe of everything.

Eager to reach for

cords and carpet fuzz.

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Everything that passed

through my hands

a treasure.

In the middle

I was littered with the

flash and blind of others,

the roses flashing thorns—

I wanted the satin,

Even if I bled.

Only now do I begin

to see the other

flowers in the garden

are just as weak as me.