The Perfect Flaw

This crack

Runs up the wall, continues

Through the upstairs window,

Splits the sky.

It has divided the statue.

It is a ripple in water.

I try not to go on

But it cuts through my voice

And my words break

And settle, unevenly, on the page;

It is the margin of a poem.

It is the deepest line

In a man's palm.

It is the only true measurement,

The shortest way from one point

To another star.

It is the porcelain cup

Buried beside the split skull,

And it is the lightning

That cracks the bell of darkness

Before a celebration of explosions.

It is the jagged edge of a tooth

Broken by lies.

It is the line at the bottom

Of a contract upon which appears

The name of the dying.

It is the light seen from the door

Left ajar

That from within appears as a dark gap.

It is the fracture

Between two floating horizons

Which results in the word I.