Poem: Puzzle

Puzzle

I cannot see where this piece goes.
It cannot be an ear or nose,
and if it were, whose would it be?
Whose face was sawn, I cannot see.

Who ran the saw that rendered small
a soul whose image graced a wall?

—whose inner life some painter craved
where only beauty could be saved
and though it was, its time has past.
Poor beauty's come to this at last:
a cardboard box,
a table square,
500 fragments
and this prayer.