Sometimes. words . . .
by Shawn Allen
The razor loves the tender flesh,
to slash, with love, and lay bare
the structures underneath.
It brings no pain, this sharpened thing,
but laughs as it proceeds:
that which is dead falls away.
Once it has begun its lover’s work
the blade becomes insatiable,
speaking its blood sonnets
‘til nothing diseased remains.
(This is metaphor, nothing more.)