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.