pocket love poem
this is no place for good
souls to hang around - treading
the red line like sinew wrung
& plucked to make sound.
the neon is the gunshot
made physical & the rain
is the rest of it (glass slivered,
floor boards pried, blood
let out of bodies in an unkind
sort of way). I am reminded
of how soft & easy
my belly is to open
by you, who guides
the yellow flowers in bad
song & licks blood from your
thumb like honey.
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