We swim among the bits of broken toys
So fractured due to anger bloated, burst
Such shrapnel meant to lacerate our skin
And thus to spread the dolls' disease to us.

What luck to find the ones of thicker flesh
Not callous mimics of synthetic lambs
But those of sturdy stuff enough to dream
That roses grown of compost bloom supreme.

The hand that reaches out though pricked by thorns
Bleeds well in mine, dear gardener, as we walk.
 

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