in that 1993 summer,
to the railroad
that lead to a bench
in that 2011 wonder.
this is where we strive
to be alive in the moments,
those that make our hearts crack
and fray at the edges like old photos,
then those that iron fix
all the dents from bullets
fired by beautiful weapons.
with a basket full of glue
and tape and staples and safety pins
and a blow torch and some tin;
the intention is to seal off
the holes left my those missing pieces,
but we have to find them first.
left in snow under a bench,
vomited up on a train,
bled on the floor of a bar,
shattered on the rumbler,
forgotten in Union Square,
I have left slivers of my heart
many places.