This city has torn me to pieces
and scattered the unwanted bits
through these cobblestone streets.
Through 3 a.m. deserted corridors
and starless skies,
through the litter and muck
along the banks of its timeless raging river.

A haunting memory
is left behind a locked bathroom door
in a new friends apartment on Lyon St.
across from the empty museum.
The rumors of attempted suicide
still linger in the air.

The shell of a young man
is found in the basement
of a crumbling house on Veto St.
Swept beneath the rug
under a pile of beer bottles
and empty fifths.

A scarred outer layer of skin
is found in the drain
of a ***** clawfoot bathtub,
in a dark studio apartment
on the corner of Douglas and National.
Along with a well read copy
of Bukowski’s Women
and a bowl of maggot infested rice.

A heart,
freezer burned and half thawed,
is found on the counter
in a split level apartment
on Lydia St.,
just before the hill.

As for the rest of me,
that I’ll leave for us to find.
Maybe somewhere on the back roads
from there to here,
in the hazy twilight
fit for discovery.