Love requires not knowing.
The super intelligent cannot love,
So much so that I think intelligence
Is just another name for the inability to love.
Dogs and cats are welcome in our beds.
Being with you, simply, is what the person in me dreads.
I remember two days the most: the day
You liked my poems, and the day
You hated them—thinking they were good enough
To impress others; that day I lost your love.
I keep talking. But it’s too late.
I sound smart. This is what you hate.
I tell this poem to end: It can’t do anything more.
There it is, in the Norton Anthology, calling you a whore.