blood transfusion in a fucked up poem:
eyes meet, hearts melt into puddles of misery,
a guy shot a man, and a man a guy
at midnight when the sky was pistachio-green
and earth slightly shifted beneath their feet.
love is common place – words are the dregs
of tea left in my battered mug, hugs are given up
in arms that rattle like broken windows, and
they dare say,
*“This is not what we came to see…”
.
.
*”This is not what we came to see” is quoted from Brian Patten’s poem The Projectionist’s Nightmare.
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry and With Real Toads.
