no such thing as a botched attempt to love
its splendor is its awkwardness
its stock rises with a stumble
it rattles the consciousness of routine
makes it strangely fresh and first-time
even its failures warp the doors
it briefly opened which now stick
and lock with difficulty
which makes the clueless sleepwalker
who loosens the bolt that secures
the entrance to his heart
not so foolish after all