a million beautiful pieces

There is something about this city.
About this bar, about bar stools 
in cities they go for a drink. 

Decidedly the White Russian is 
a perfect choice for imperfect 
nights in corners of a city’s shadow.

At the edge of the bed they sit two wrists distance. 
The covers tightly tucked like Tupperware. 
Feet dangle close to the carpet catching drops 
of liquid from a lash evaporating into thick air.

I could not fix you. 
We took the 27-piece home repair tool kit
and held the allen wrench 
and twisted the cap screws 
and sanded through edges 
that were already soft.

At this bar, in this city everywhere 
else his hands have trouble with silk. 
So take the book of poetry. 
In between the stanzas is 
an acceptance, an apology, 
a memory to the bedroom 
where we broke: 
covering faces in colorful fabric 
and dispersing into a 

this year has so much to say,

to live: