You don't write poems
and can't interpret mine.
You don't appreciate the harsh line
breaks. The glossy baubles I spit and wrap
around necks - red beads like choke cherries,
oozing their bitter insides. You ask me to unclasp
this chain of jagged rubies. I want to
extract a new flavor. Break glass
and slash the blank page. Your pale back
could look so poetic in stanzas, in crimson ribbons,
in finessed fragments. A parcel of garnet-sheened
vertabrae. Syllables. Another trailing off of
bloody footnotes on a trashed love letter.