Tell me, Love, who is your critic?
And when? Do you know?
Do you believe what he says? Or she?
Yes, until his back is turned,
I do. I do.
I don't mean to. It's just what happens.
But I never read a poem from top to bottom.
Is that a comment about sex or poetry?
Or the shadow?
Do you agree with the number three?
Do you count your days? Lucky stars? Loves?
Who taught you to add?
Do you know?
Me, I'm in love with Ann and Tim and Nicanor too.
Nicanor is dead.
Did you ever ask your love, are you an elegy?
Do you know what you are doing? Asking? Of whom?
You who were always such a quick study.
A flash in the pan. The sky, too.
Does that mean you were never happy after the fact?
Did you cry the night we had sex?
What % of sadness do you carry in your soul?
That's mine, you know. Right there.
In the skin beneath the skin.
Is that where love and poetry begin?
Do you have a handkerchief? A tissue?
Something to tell me now?
Is this how what begins