Touch

All those lips she touched

That wouldn't touch more than her body

Parade across her bosom

On a stomp unearthing an anthology

Of lovers, if so they be called today

Who knew not what they had

What pure trust they did betray

And stole from your humble poet

A dream shaped in blown glass

Of spontaneity and structure

And sweet memory with no past

She could still tend to their wounds

But I'd take them down behind the shed

To the firing line that exhumes

Their sins in blood and intentions in smoke

For they left me with a dirty pretty thing

With a beating heart but wings broke

She still sticks to them like cigarettes

While my words drip off peeling like a used patch

Do you blame us?

We're not romeo, we're not juliette