Threaded thoughts, a needle, three digits of π in my veins
But swans can’t sing over the sounds of breaking hearts
I gave my heart, bloody, dripping, beatless like Elaine on the dancefloor
Destruction breeds creation; what will we destroy
Fat orange moon over a wrecked horizon
One of my cats is on the counter again
the small, sick bones of you
There he lay, the button torn from my coat still in his trouser pocket
But like wrathful snakes, dick spittle flings venom in the uncaring dirt
That sparkling of moonlight on shattered glass, knife sharp
Sun sets, jets streaking across the sky, darkness looming on the horizon
The skin sloughs from my body, fully exposed as I bask in her holy light
Blue and wrinkled, like a tired tarp forgotten against the woods

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D. Shaw started writing poetry at the age of 12. 30 years into this journey have seen 2 honorary mentions in New York’s City Hall Yearly Poetry Contest. Currently living in NY, Iowa, with a landlord.