What We Wanted   So somewhere we seem to have lost the thread, that is, the sense of things — not the machine, but the oil in the machine. We said   we wanted perfection, not what it means. We wanted diamonds, we got glass. Each time we prayed for the rains to come back, for greener   pastures — nothing. We asked for sublime, we got so-so. Our ups went down. Instead of rhythm, we finally settled for rhyme.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2022