Fragile Crockery

If what I fear about the politics were true

That it were not its rough-and-tumble character or that labyrinth of its institutions, but something deep, deeper- lodged, past the shadow of the coccyx, tucked inside the birth canal, in the alpha and beta of its AGCT, coded genetically, irreparably --

If it were that that drives the conflict of its reason to the serial, mad, self-negating conclusions

Again and heavier mounting again that push that strife to wring out to tear the need right out of itself by peeling back the skin and breaking each finger in the hand

To retaliate for not possessing the One answer that would stop the pain of its own committing -- if that were true:

I'd break like a plate.


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