I pick apart
the scraps
and shards
of shattered hearts.

I clean the
bleached bones,
sweep the
stained sidewalks
that ragged strangers
call home,
where they
sleep alone
or together
in whatever
good or bad
weather
they are
dealing with.

I read the words
till my red eyes
dry up and burn
with the tension
of spending
too much time
on this
disjointing
internet
system,
this connected
form of
isolation.

I fight
a lazy battle
to find the
right way
to say
something
meaningful.

It is just
spurts of dust
to connect us.
Not much
of the junk
I write
at night
is viable
or will hold up
to the light
of space and time.

But, still I write.