No, wait: a flaw. Fallen perhaps
or simply made that way,
it sits among the mis-shapes
purely for display.
A chip, a crack, a stain, some frit:
through use and mismaking
value drops forever; it
amounts to nothing.
Unless of course the piece is rare.
Then we may overlook
the crap, call it character,
the vagary of luck.
Second Nature: James Lindesay’s Poetry 