be still, dear heart.
I left a piece of my heart in New York City; the rest I carried home on my sleeve.
I left my song in a cab.
Noiseless noise from a digital seat back absorbed her (and I didn’t notice until today).
I left my language on a greyhound.
Two months passed before I knew how to paraphrase the truth.
I left my rightside up on a curbside, facedown.
Senselessness safe in my overnight bag.
Standing is sliding is moving is slipping. Stand still. Stand still.
Be still, dear heart.
I lost my voice inside grey October air; and somehow thought punching keys would be the same without it.
It wasn’t the same without it.
What I managed to bring home was a mosaic heart—with a hole where stained glass should be.
My typing fingers still type full of paper cuts.
Resting fingers on sharp edges of beating fragments; from that time I left my heart in New York City.
From home, I’ll look behind my oldest books and favorite vinyl.
Directions back to the city.
A number for the cab company.
How to solder glass where there is none.