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Theoretical

Theory’s such a beautiful thing,

the way it sits there on paper,

so well attended, I’s dotted,

T’s crossed, commas, periods,

punctuation, flawless in its

hermetic way, an abstraction

in a reconsidered world.

Practice, however, is another

thing, a bigger animal, a nastier

beast, tenuous and thinner-skinned,

cut and scraped, swearing and

bruised, all splinters and bandages,

wounded by the variable, magnetized

by the charm of the second-guess.

Practice has its beauty, though,

fleeting as it may be, random as

it may seem, kept like a secret,

passed like an heirloom, the worth

of its weight measured and held

by invisible hands yet spoken

with grateful breath.