Sometimes, jokes
aren’t buoyant enough
to lift the rubbles of crumbled
smiles tethered to laid out
heart pieces, nailed into
pulse, by trembling

It is a surprise
these nails did not sink through
un-composed jingling fingers, sealing
the hands that worked
through red stained hailstorms
and flooded streets to
surge this heart
to beat.

These pieces meander
through the pool that covers
our streets. They taste much
like tears, smell much like
blood, and look much
like heartbreak.


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