Love Poem

Love is the bastard on the streets. There are so many of them, oh, so many of them, the inscrutable faces, the sickly sweet, the blood red, in every spot and glitch and marring of the street, in every love the same sick, cigarette filled breath taken away, in every love a vestigal love injury healed, in every love a word written, a hand held, a lip kissed, a boat made, a song sung, in every love a gun shot.