This is Love from an open Wound.
This is Love from a Sore scraped raw.
This is Love made of Pus and Oil.
This is Spit,
This is Blood,
This is damp black Char.
This I give you with knotted Fists,
from Palms covered sparsely with ribboned Skin.
This is all I have left to yield
after dark
after night
after shredded heart.
Love made with haste in the parking lot
Love made with violence in a smoke filled loft
Love made of whimp'ring and pleading no
into Whole
into Soul
into once-bright Smile
This is Love from an open Wound
left to swell in the August sun
This is Love as It spills Its name
onto dirt
onto grass
onto grown-cold ground
This is Love from a Sore scraped raw,
homeless Spirit in a red tin can.
This is Love that has stretched too far
to be shaken,
or taken
back inside again. | 
