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Love Poem Relinquishing the Articulate Veneer

Fritz Ward

Dear Fill In My Blanks, my heart is a hotel room overlooking an alley bright with rain:
a metal pull-chain, an empty socket, light blue curtains singed with the approximation
of a human soul. The truth is this is not the truth I counted on. These fingers were
not the fingers I counted on. The mattress in the corner is spare and empty.
Underneath, I’ve hidden a book of matches and two flammable confessions. One where
the grim silk grows red into the merchandise of love. One where everything I say

Fritz Ward

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