Yesterday
I saw my therapist flossing his teeth with cement:
we talked about the man
who carves the jigsaw puzzles—
obscene piles of pieces
as high as my waist
and always tumbling,
falling awful 
and beautiful
like the best minds of my generation,
like an oiled machine eating its children.

Did I tell you that already?
Did I tell you about wheels
and about wheels within wheels?
Did I tell you about the centrifugal force
of loneliness
or that I
am a lonely
industrial sink?

Tomorrow we’ll burn the pieces
which refuse to agree with each other, no matter which way
I turn them.
We’ll watch them fill up with space
and offer the embers
to the spirits who live down the drain.
Only take
what I would prefer to keep:
Nothing less
is worthy
of your scorn
O Lord of Awful Fire.

Circa January 2019.