Ask Your Doctor If Poetry Is Right for You
It’s sad but not sad we love the darkness.
Ghosts, who let you in? I swore
I locked the door. Even those who can’t touch
drink wine together as the moon rises
in their individual glasses. Once I made a date
three years in advance — who lives so optimistically?
I want a bottle of difficult love so when I pour it —
the universe becomes a chalice of stars. It’s sad
but not sad how our wrists are made of poetry.
And when I touch the underside of life, I feel
its pulse. And I hear it, in the whisper of words
— the blood telling the bruise, I am here for you.
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