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The Flaw

The best thing about a hand-made pattern

is the flaw.

Sooner or later in a hand-loomed rug,

among the squares and flattened triangles,

a little red nub might soar above a blue field,

or a purple cross might sneak in between

the neat ochre teeth of the border.

The flaw we live by, the wrong color floss,

now wreathes among the uniform strands

and, because it does not match,

makes a red bird fly,

turning blue field into sky.

It is almost, after long silence, a word

spoken aloud, a hand saying through the flaw,

I’m alive, discovered by your eye.

Molly Peacock

Listen here: Poems Out Loud

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