Red drips down the cover
until it pools at the bottom
and settles into an author’s name.
It is murder-the butchery of words
and the crime tape of the table of contents
spells out each failed theory.
The ink is wet or maybe the ideas too new
or thoughts without facts,
but I still thumb through the book
and let it stain my fingertips.
Bitterness has a way to rest on shoulders
or collect on hands, and this autobiography
is full of edged apologies and gore tinged facts.
When I place it back on the shelf,
I can’t help but look at the author’s eyes
and notice as they watch me while I walk away.
Poetic Trials 