Things Break
June 19 2010


Things break.
Voices. Rules. Plates.
A maximal state of disorder,
give or take
the life force,
a few more years to live.
Earthquake, black hole
asteroid collision,
our fate
none omitted.

I am told such pessimism
is unbecoming
a creative type like me.
That I can learn to sing baritone
back-up bass.
That crazy glue will hold
this mosaic plate,
the handle of my favourite mug.
That grammar doesn’t count
in poetry,
and there’s no right way to love
— make up your own rules,
copy, paste
and cut.

Records are meant to be broken,
hearts will break.
But then they will harvest a vein
patch the blood supply,
oxygenate
resuscitate
electrify.
And you will fall in love again,
your heart
beating in synch with another.

What a surprise,
especially for a pessimist
who thinks too hard.
That poor starts
can end well,
what falls apart
is mendable.
And that entropy can be suspended
long enough,
no matter how much of a mess
you’ve made.