The dilemma for us is this, poor toad:
Love must be theatrical to show itself as love,
But as soon as love enters the theatrical mode
It stops being love.
You brought her flowers and a poem.
Love became exposed and known.
You took her aside and said:
“I love you. You are doomed. You can no longer think it is all in your head.”
Your love spurted ink.
You brought love out of hiding,
Where, indifferent and not curious,
It had belonged to all. Now it’s yours, you think.
The minute love raised its head to be seen,
A thousand photographers flocked
To beauty, with skin almost perfect, just slightly pocked,
And your love turned sophisticated and hidden, that was so sweet and green.
Beware a lover with loves and cards and flowers!
Beware the gestures and the rugs and the cries,
The sudden kiss in the elevator. And the lies.
But also beware the lover who is talking
To you—and the one standing near.
This one has been stranded for hours.
Beware the lover with the soft, low undertow,
Toad! Those drowsy, sweet, soft, sucking, powers.
