If Nothing Else Is Perfect

All done. Wánmēi de. Set.
Ideally accomplished,
Fully finished. Perfect.

Stupid, said Bernadette.
Why should a poem be, if
Nothing is. Quite correct.

Stupid yearning. You slept
Imperfectly, and yet
You slept. A perfect rest

Is just death, you suspect.
Maybe that’s why you want
Badly to be perfect.

Steal a march, gain a step
On the one unique thing
You, consciousness, do best.

While all the else go on
With further stage effects,
Incomplete and churning,

You, that which intersects
Being, body, and breath,
Won’t be left. Will have left.