With Broad Nails & Broken Homes

When I say bevel
my corners,
I mean those places
where I go
to break
from the tyranny

of worshipping parallel
lines. My love

of trains
and sidewalks
may outlast all others.
I thrive
on nonsense.
Feed me at daybreak

more than you can
import in a month.

I will be starved
for more before another blood
memory snaps
all the tree branches
and crashes on
the roof at noon.

The drinking
glass I smashed

last night
will heal by evening
if you want. If I want,
I go to one
of those corners
and search

for exposed edges
to my heart

to file down. Any
woodworking tool will do.

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