He was sick of talking to others
About her. Except that by talking
About her, he was, in effect, talking
About himself. It might have been all the poetry
That was left in him and here he was,
Wasting it on a complaint. Needlessly. He felt
Guilty. His answers were all wrong.
The nectar in the flower, the raised bumps
On the skin that the cold evening air provokes,
The song of the swallow in the night.
All of these were better topics of
Self-conversation. He felt guilty again.
Still, he didn't know what else to talk about.
It's funny, the mandates of the heart.
Funny and ridiculous, love with knives.

- May, 1999