How is it I could love someone I could not win back with a poem?
Or that I could not touch with an Iris?
How is it I could ever find something in someone who thinks the moon is hiding nothing!?!
Or think it queer that I look for dead locusts, to hold in my hands, to bring back.
How is it I could love someone,
who when it’s over will meet me like a stranger in the park to chat about the weather or a movie and then leave the Irises I brought her salted on the bricks below her feet.
Like dying a slug.