(Based on a poem by Pretty Thunder)

Here

None of the decks are full.

yet she always managed to win the hand.

51, 48, 37.

Worn soft from constant shuffling.

Pictures of Mary.

Small icons.

The virgin’s barefoot on the serpent.

Opened arms. Open heart.

Receive.

Bifocals.

Scattered everywhere.

Some with chains so as not to get lost.

All broken in some way.

Where the floor is burnt away

From  presence

She still lingers in the dust moats

And the scent of cigarettes.

It can not be escaped 

A broken picture frame.

Half an angel.

The grief of this empty kitchen.

Silent. No longer humming.

Nothing is too broken to be discarded.

Everything is saved in the end.

(To have that kind of faith!) 

What is broken may become useful again

In collapse.