There is poetry laying around the kitchen
next to the glasses of unfinished wine
over the microwave
and bits of it in the sink

there are pieces of me laying around
everywhere
even by that uknowned hand
that holds a piece of mine
cold, dead hand
missing a finger

there are feelings spread over the walls
over the table
across the floor

stainds of hate
and of love
all over
around my hand
and yours