they

They smell your breath,
     lest you might have said I love you. 
     They smell your heart.
     These are strange times, my darling. 
     The butchers are stationed at each 
     crossroads with bloody clubs and cleavers. 

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/08/16/100816fa_fact_anderson?currentPage=all#ixzz0w7XSdTDh

Tags: poem

this being

my first post.

love me.

please love me.

or don’t.

Tags: first