They begin the day extolling imperfection
time that leans towards the broken side
the few oranges that turn
yellow amidst the straw
the wine-emptied amphorae
They look into the white innocence of the morning
and in everything that helps a man with his trade
they praise the vulnerable and the unfinished
They are sitting on the thresholds of spaces
slowly being worked by silence
When God comes back
he won’t have to break down every door