Poem for our history

Is there something that stitches together broken people with no common history

Except that of being lost

of free falling as transient as shooting stars

Some say this is exhilarating

We may make good art

We may have an interesting pockmarked veneer that

Endures the interest of the

Fallen lady beneficent or the Collector of burned dreams

Sweeping them up like ashes

Dropped from pipes of smoked relatives

of cremated histories.

I know you won’t understand this

I know you don’t recognize this fashion

But it intrigues you for a while at a reading or a writing group or therapy with other victims before they die of their wounds.

we were all in this together until we weren’t.