BPR 44 | 2017
Is it not the beauty of the maculate?The speckled, spotted, the rose now varicose;
the sky now gold and now a purple bruise;
the taint and sully of the soul’s caprice;
the fitful orisons of a restless hour;
the artful heart so fickle-quick to sour.
Whatever wavers with the changing minute:
the weather, the markets, the 401 and peace
of mind; what had been promised but never meant;
the youth and years that now seem badly spent—
Accept it.