Of course your mind is a blank—
how else do you think you have thoughts?
When you and I had nothing to do
that’s when my poetry was bad—
and we were joyous and I loved you.
That’s when we choked on the dusty plain
and found the green in ourselves.
Janitors with noisy barrels
on the top floor of museums
made us look at each other and laugh. The world
conspired to thwart our homeless love
just by being everywhere and not interested in love.
The contrast made me a genius at last.
My poetry got good.
Now you languish—and I do, too!—the future sighing in the past.