Since stones hurt,
as in let the sinless cast the first . . .
and sticks will also break my bones,
what will rocks do?
What have you thrown at me?
How could little you have lofted them?
I’m afraid I see you everywhere
like the fear of AIDS,
though I would gladly die of you.
I still unwisely love you.
Because of that
I can’t love another,
I think, because of you.
507 ®Copyright 1998 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.