Piecemeal

There’s a whole
In my pocket
That I worry
Like a prayer.

Maybe the opening from a
Crown of thorns
Or roses
That will prick my forehead.

Or an oculus
I can use to
Peer through
And see the firmament.

Perhaps a rent from a shard of time,
A splintered second
Left behind in the wash
Like a piece of glass.

Curious, I turn my mind
Inside out and shake. But only
A key, some change,
Regret.

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