Street Debris Strewn

Very short poem on a street feeling

Pieces
Too many god-damned pieces
Strewn, flying
Uneloquently, overlapping
Without destiny intervening
To pile them nicely.
Without fate’s sweet plot
Without crisp heels walking on cobblestones
Or exact tones
Accompanying my hand’s grasp
In fact
The narration is drowned
By buses
By voices.