Words&Dirt

The business of broken things comes for everyone,
calmly coaxing, flash forward to end’s meat.
In time’s taking we supply decay,
mushroom fodder, gentle dis-integral.

The business of broken things keeps the score,
blithely burrowing, back to seeded womb.
Returned to exile we dissolve astray,
no looking back, no back, no way.

The business of broken things sings the song,
sweetly humming, linked fibers in sonic weave.
Framed in shadow we retreat from sway,
swift shrapnel digging deeper, deeper.

This thread of yours, locked away at night––
did it ever really stay?
This head of yours, eyebrows raised in fright––
did it ever really stay?
This bed of yours, a haven from the blight––
did it ever really stay?
This stead of yours, awaiting your next flight––
did it ever really stay?

What could you have said
What could you have done
What could you have bought
What could you have wrought
To make it stay?

The business of broken things subtracts the scene,
slashing sideways, mending through demise.
Through its doorway walks rebirth today,
Washed ashore, sea-foam clean, youngly wise.