Love is the opposite of love.
Her love was moral and made me see I was a fool.
Her kisses were kisses of work.
Her kisses were kisses of school.
I wanted to sing and remember things.
She wanted to be silent and forget.
“Love will be love,” she once told me, “but not yet.”
In my dream last night she was at a counter as I walked by
and she started up an angry chatter aimed at me
and it morphed into singing as I descended the stairs.
And now I’m awake and in my lousy poetry
I see those were my attempts to sing, those were my cares.