Distiller

you are
(or should be)
a crime,
each finger gently wringing
the mess from underneath
spring's outgrowth,

as if beauty could be
coaxed from such a ruined creature,
as if nothing were more simple than
piecing lives back together,
as if you could draw snowflakes
out of entropy.

we all know the world is
uglier than that,
and you're not the only one
who has blinded yourself
in order to be beautiful.

we can't all be poets.