Hanging out with musicians, still in my suit, by Tom Sastry
He said fucking and that was important:
“We’re all fucking broken.”
He said it gently
like a priest, soothing the smart of sin.
I hadn’t heard about it before
this shared brokenness
and it was new to me, this idea
that being in pieces could bring us together
so my mind worked through all the things he might mean
like the fourteen-stone word-association machine that I am
I remembered all the world’s once-complete, now-shattered things
until I couldn’t get it out of my head
that we were broken like jigsaws
fucking broken like fucking jigsaws
and it felt right and wise and true.
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