Erf. not sure if I'm happy with this yet. but oh well.

i have written this
in broken glass,
and brownstones, and
and every swarming street.

it has not been
enough too keep me
from mistaking
a crack for a canyon,
a puddle for the sea,
and this
for a city. i have
mistaken a city
for love,

putting dreams
in my pocket to
glaze over to the whisper
louder
than the top floor
and the bottom shelf
in the last car
of the night

because
concrete is softer
than asking for
desire and bloody
stumps hurt less
than no hands
anywhere and the
dirt washes off