Draw a person.
Someone in her mind
awaits execution. You find
eight ways to fail
before she yells abort.
The paper is faultless
but causal—your crimes happen here
nine times out of nine.
She can’t know of your flat eyes.
The broken ones span pages, heaped
and gaping, deformed—she clutches them
anyway, frantic to call mine mine.
The right one won’t come today.
She dangles the mistakes
over a merciful pit
to warn you.
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