poem twenty-four: a “love poem” for lydia

Yesterday I promised my friend Lydia that I would write a “love” poem for her based on the lipstick mark she left on her sandwich. I don’t think it’s really a love poem at all, but it’s hard to write those about your friends …


she takes a bite,
traces words
with red Sylvia lips,
heir to a bit
of Bukowski’s heart.
she holds it up
to her own –
sets it free
to roam over white
space, in sometimes


through splinters
of letters,
and conversation.


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