no. love, you are porcelain
fragments; pushpins spilt.

these things puncture underfoot. blue.
threads in softness; lines going
across me, you were so tender,
little sinking bites.

ceramic shards,
how my feet bloom
wet, along your mouth
red peonies and claret,
oxidized kisses on a pane.

i would scatter you:
silver tacks and iron pins;
how you dizzy on my splintered floors, how
fearfully sweet my heart races and aches
the way i pierce you into my flesh.