A poet on love cannot be in love—
plaudits of platitude would ruin the poem.
Where pain and pleasure have a similar moan,
weirdos exit the ant hills
to build on a different hill their kingdom of God.
I fled from every kind of analysis
which travels in loops back to the fact that my darling is odd.
She is odd—that’s why I love her.
I wouldn’t have the courage to kill my breakfast—
nor do justice where criminals dwell.
Temporary pleasure is all we know of life:
that, and that it doesn’t end well.
I eat the breakfast half-asleep on the train,
prepared by the mom estranged from the dad.
The ant hill is washed away by the rain.
The washing is good. The washing is bad.