What a strange thing
when poetry is no longer a thing.
Poetry, which began in my childhood—
and wasn’t ever going to end!
Is it just like not wanting to talk to someone?
I am such a pure heterosexual,
shy in that one track, and bold.
Poetry isn’t like love. It has a quieter excitement,
it doesn’t demand you be its friend.
It is the most matter-of-fact thing in the world, poetry.
“OK let’s figure this thing out.” And it writes something.
That’s why I’m surprised it left. It really cannot leave.
In my mind, can’t I make it come back?
That’s what it leads us to believe.
But love seemed a thing that would last forever, too.
I detected a faint mustache
on a beautiful woman this morning on the train.
I don’t think I can have this conversation with you.