For years, nothing fit.

I’d puzzle over

patterns; imagine

interweaving strands;

trace lines through tangles;

and believed in gods.


To think is belief

it can be known,

the first delusion.

There’s nothing beyond

reason, but paradox.


No grand unified

theory to connect

everything to all,

each box was its own

design, the pieces

cut with precision.


Now what is in front

of me is enough.

I no longer seek

the last missing part

in my broken heart.


(June 8, 2018)

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