Final Draft

Here is my flaw.
The river arrests its flow.
My heart is a steeple,
and accidents are cheap.
By my name, I invoke
an answer. Days churn

out livid air. The churn
and whirl of every flaw,
the pressure they invoke.
They don’t interrupt my flow
among the moments. The steeple
charges. The situation, cheap.

Why waste effort on cheap
excesses? Why continually churn,
burning the leaves and the steeple?
I unearth another flaw.
Overhead, the gentle flow
of music. The skies invoke

the rain. What pain can invoke
such presence? I slither in cheap
hotels and through the subtle flow
of poetry. My eyes churn
colors to reveal their collective flaw.
The laws of man form a steeple

shrouded in heavy shadow. What steeple
cannot prick the stars? The sighs they invoke?
Here’s a final, understated flaw.
It’s  a mask woven from cheap
and fraying fibers. Let its memory churn
behind your pupils. Let my desire flow

freely like light. With no direct flow,
I cannot overcome the steeple.
But the poems, they still churn.
Their symbols still invoke
a nauseous sort of love. Cheap
appeals to childhood, a brilliant flaw.

My every flaw proceeds to flow
over the cheap and wearied steeple.
I invoke a storm and begin to churn.

-r. miller


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