Hard eyes perceive broken hinges and missing pieces;
a home-fix junkie
gripping a wrench and a blowtorch for a night light
raises a bonfire fit for burning books of shadow
and every innocent ever accused.
Every gulp of air sulfurous, tastes sour,
a swarm of hornets nests in the chest.
Monsoon winds blow hollow the last emblem,
an object thought to be gold but not even copper.
Fixing what's not broken, breaks it.
Open your hands, soften your eyes.
Don't be, just breathe.