like if a porcelain cup tipped on its side and it had a chip in it

it’s a drop of ink that marks the margins of a page

an intricately designed rug that has a snag

a flower that is short one petal

a bike with a slight bend rim

a dog that has a lopsided run

a single fluffy cloud on an otherwise sunny day

it’s hitting a note that is just flat of where it should be

and the millions of imperfections 

that became somehow more real

than whatever the imagined version is 

we try to create