And on the seventh day, I rested,
failing my covenant to the great pit.
But I woke to an electrical storm
and maligned the sonnet once more.
Because the universe always laps back
on itself, I'll wreck two flapping
days with this fourteen layer rock.
Such is efficient love-making.
Gnarl in the shoot, knot in new line, you are
a doubling back, the contemplation of fault,
tangle of creation and lack thereof, you bare
me by absence. The silence reveals the vault
of my dysfunctions. And so the project remains.
As with love, failures can be gains.
