Under Cover
















I have them under cover,
hidden beneath facades
so no one will notice, no one
will be aware of my blunders.

Yet upon closer inspection
my failures become more evident
unravelling the edges, sticking out
for all to see, hard to ignore.

Why do I think I have to hide, or exclude
these scars of my humanity? Do I want
to be like stone, stiff and stolid?
Or malleable and stretching, ready

for reshaping and repairing,
each day starting over again
more flexible, more permeable?
Yes, Lord, remold my clay over and over.



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