I spent time
repairing beating cardioids
like a profession;
graspers, needle holders,
and sternum spreaders
sat comfortably
on a veneered table
living in the attic,
mimicking an exotic
surgical room.


The spiders on the cobwebs
watched how the stitches
were done, though none could patent
the way my hand weaves
the hollow of your chest,
and how the edges
of your broken skin
wrinkle beautifully
with every touch.


A mountain flower
stood dehydrated
on the window sill
sipping the last drop
of rain
suspended in a styro cup
as old as your aging soul.


The trees undressed themselves
carefully just outside the door
like warm teenagers
feasting on the aftertaste of summer.


The fall visited early this year,

though a bit too late
for the both of us.


I grew white hairs
watering that amaranthine flower
in your coffee cup;
fervently fixing a battered heart...



for someone else
to break.