Broken glass, that used to be a vodka bottle,

decorates Wilda Avenue—and a heart

that used to be my own,

decorates an overturned Christmas tree

in the grip of my living room.


A painting of orange, holding black,

hugs a canvas in my bedroom.

A sliding glass door I broke through

pierces the bottoms of my bare feet, but

I walk further; I walk down Wilda Ave., alone.


I garnish the asphalt with my lament,

new bottle in hand, slaying dragons the alcohol

brought to life—harming not a single hair

on the head of my heartbreak.


Instead, biting down with sober certainty:

it will be there in the morning.


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