Splinters Poem by RIC BASTASA

there are
silent
explosions of
our worlds
which we
keep as
secrets

they are not
the kind
that fourths of july
speak about

we collide sometimes
explosions occur
again & again
and splinters of
broken selves
lay in space
floating like
spaceships with
consumed
batteries

what is strange is
that we see all the splinters ourselves
and we entertain hope

that soon this will be over
and that our very hands
wounded
can still pick up the pieces
and make
an artistic mosaic of our
bits and pieces
and we shall call them
us.