The trouble with being loved,
is who you are, that is loved,
will always be destroyed by being loved.
I couldn’t see this when I loved,
but as I am being loved, I see
how good it is for my poetry.
My unhurried calm, my devotion
to important things, made you
want to swim in my ocean—
but this unique, private sea
is mine alone. You swimming here
isn’t the plan. Is that clear?
My ocean is placid and small.
It reflects. It isn’t for you at all.
I don’t like this poem’s insight.
I want love to work.
Nor am I immune. To be lovable
is to be an unhurried, privileged jerk.
I should love you, instead—
I want to love. All ideas are dead.