My Palms Are Still Red

When I find an old poem
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Words
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings 
To find it's too old 
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its 
Strings 
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks 
Of a child

Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.