After All

                 

The shreds and shards of poetry we find

From ancient Greece are like the battered heads

On ruined statuary, both aligned

With code breaking and loss, all tattered threads

Of ragged tapestries preserved in sand,

The dunes of shifting chance.  The shattered face

And broken limb of stone forbid the bland

Assessment of mere beauty.  Crippled grace

Strides stronger through the mind and heart.  The lines

Of partial words or partial muscles tease

And torture us.  These gaps in the designs

That we will never savour heal and please.

But which is worse?  The ruination of

The words or biceps?  Neither.  They are love.