Things not small are limited
by their bulk. They cannot be folded and
carried in pockets, or secreted in heels
like a lethal sliver of revelation.
Not born to deceive, they do not pas
the immigration counters of our nations -
and minds - as entirely different things.
Things not small are not born convicts,
nor heartbreakers that love amorality.
Things small are consummate symbols,
they sell themselves to ideologies
with a pretence, slight, of change.
The cancer at the heart of all
that is misguided, they pervert everything
into worship of their tiny selves.
Some small things are kind gods.
Bland guards on your dressing table,
or residing in pained dignity
in your sock drawer, alerting you
to the forgotten - the voices of those
you once loved with fatal sincerity,
wafting into your sad little room
the aroma of a floury love
you once disdained.
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