BROKEN GLASS, SPILLED GLUE

You are the glass
From which
Men and angels
Drank
The wine of beauty
But now
You are broken.

I am
The sticky glue
Spilled
From
The bottle
Of my mother's
Blessed womb.

Shards
Have no worth
In their
Brokenness
And spilled glue
Binds
Only trampled dust.

Shall we
Not cleave together
That you
Might be mended
And I
Shall find worth again
In my stickiness.

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