It’s a specific side.

The one with frayed edges where

Paper fibers are disrupted from the interwoven

Pattern of rules calculated to win points.


No one can see the perfect matrix.

The fibers that are interlocked with each other 

So tightly, so smoothly, are no longer in

The game that coerces and cajoles to win applause.


Only the imperfections remain to be seen.

Those fuzzy fibers look at you like iron

Shards attracted to magnets, sticking out menacingly,

Read to play.

This poem is about: 


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