Listening to music on the way home from work, I think you are as cracked as me. It's night. In the day, the city is made out of fields torn off of a green sun. The grass glows between the sidewalk, hemming the street, encasing the hills. In the summer the different greens crowd as dense as cake, lit from the inside. It's night and the music fills up my car. I think that you are my lover but what if you are so cracked you are senseless and nothing like me and I talk to you but I am talking to myself. The night is as dark and hot as the inside of a mouth. If you were whole it would be your mouth. If you were broken --like those people who like broken things say-- the blackness and heat would be your absence. People who like glitter say that there are scraps of you littering the streets and that wise people are putting you together. I am a woman so everyone says I should heal things but I don't heal you. I am greedy and I cast nets in the black soup of night. The shards of you are in the car and in the throat of the man who sings on the radio. In the wet air, I don't care if you are broken or whole. I am just glad you are in my car.