Feb 16, 2017
The poet sees a bruise and compares it to their lover's lips. The poet presses their fingers into the blue heart of it and laughs between mouthfuls of aspirin. The poet cringes at the idea of a closed door but stays rmly on the other side of it. The poet is not ashamed because shame would be too easy. The poet throws a blown glass pipe across the room just to see it shatter. The poet thinks destruction is simple. Picking up the broom and apologizing to the glass is what's hard. Some days, I am the glass. Some days, you are. Either way, we shatter.
From Allen Ginsberg to Peter Orlovsky
this is from my latest book No Matter the Time,
a collection of love letters between historical couples,
which you can buy on Amazon here
@wordsdancemag
