Perfect

Dead in a garden.
Yes. Not far from the place of the first breath.
Perfect.
Dead on a tree. Ugly as sin.
Not for goodness' sake,
but for all of the things we couldn't do.
For a decent, full cover
in the fig leafs place.

Somewhere, in the synapse,
in the space between,
this creation remembers
what is was meant to be
and it yearns, it yearns-
for the perfect.