She comes like a wrecking ball in winter,
razing the old tenement and with it,
plink-plinking, she shatters your ice to splinters.
No one expects the foundation: the pit.
But you always recognized the ruins,
the crumbling walls, the painted hearts—you knew
it like a child alone will know to spin.
When you lie down, the weeds will take their pews,
and the white sun is too far to warm you,
and only the wrecking ball, your gray moon,
laps the empyrean for bloody dew.
And whenever she comes, she comes too soon.
And you will love her like the broken glass
loves the wind that blows away the ashes.
originally published in LiveMag