Alone among the shapes I meet,
you rest, content and incomplete;
no rounded symmetry I see,
nor perfect immortality.
Your half-formed body, foetal soul
seems broken, wounded, far from whole.
Your pair of angles doesn’t quite
square the circle, set things right.
Yet, should I look beyond such flaws,
open up my blinkered doors,
perhaps I’d see through different eyes:
your gentle promise, silver-bright
shining half-moon in the night.