Perfection (II)

Beauty.
Beauty is
Beauty is formlessness
Is what I don’t know what it is
But is definitely indefinite
Is neither that which cannot change
Which is the evidence of life
Is not what is afraid to be
Because a thing itself is
Always itself in all its ways
And she is herself in all her ways
And all her ways are beautiful
Is also why I admire
The imperfections –
They endear us because
Well, what is perfect
Is isolate or, perhaps
Is how the mind habits
Or makes a statue of the living
Because whatever pictures
Or portraits not themselves
Are dead and that is how
The marble mimics beat the breeze
And keep a body’s proportion balanced
Though always suffering the elements
Every mutable blow and buffet and yet
Is also how it stays and still
Is nothing more.

But when the wind
winds her hair into knots
And fans it to a brunette flame
Beautiful is wild is what I want
Is the wrinkle in a cheek
When her smile winks
Or her uneven curves
That turn me to her
These affections for flaws
These elegant imperfections
These cracks in the marble.

Because we’re not static beings but beings becoming
And surgery cannot keep us or make us
Lovelier than we already are.
What face would you frame or feature freeze
Forever or never to smile again, or frown?
Would you so quickly dam running water,
When damned a stagnant pool breeds filth.
So if we must age then let us age together,
And let’s be beautiful, because you know
What perfection is is, is letting go.

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