the perfect image

looking under
rocks, rubble and falling towers
for what it means to be heroic

wondering: perhaps perfection
isn’t orderly nor sanitized, not
to be found in the cleaned-up thing

but its beauty, a perfect Beauty,
is the weak cry of defiant life
stubbornly resisting extinction.

perhaps: heroes are made from
the glimmering shards of broken
windows containing all the sun’s glory

and ideals are shaped from the
hope found under the mess,
the mess that makes us worthy

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