Poetry

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"broken by grace"


it wasn’t revelation—
not the bright‑lit kind
that asks for belief
with its staged haze
and borrowed shine.

just another day
moving narrow‑shouldered
through the slow‑grind hours,
the familiar drag
of being a body
in a world that keeps
its ungentling march.

then—
metal dropping behind me,
a small report,
rolling on its thin rim
across the pavers
until it tapped my boot
and settled.

heads, not tails,
looking up—
a minor interruption
in the grind,
a held breath leaving,
a thought loosening
in its seam.

if that is grace,
it wasn’t sacral—
just the kind that arrives
in the random drift
of ordinary things,
for reasons unknown,
and stops the day
from pressing in
quite so hard.

broken, yes,
but not ruined—
broken the way a locked
door creaks open
when the hinge decides
no oil is required.








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