THE TROUBLE WITH LOVE POEMS

Each one thinks it's unique. Let me tell you how they're all the same. They end badly, not necessarily on the page, but they do. There are no happy ones. Many, however, are ecstatic, visionary, perfected. We approach them like pilgrims, memorize them like prayers. No wonder they think they're saints. You know what perfects them? Suffering. What they are is human. You can hear the greed, smell the fear. Even bedded and satisfied they're never satisfied. Between the covers they all lie awake scheming in the dark. They're forever talking to strangers. When nobody's listening they talk to themselves. It's like they're afraid to close their eyes. They can't keep their mouths shut. They have to keep trying to explain such rapture, such bliss, such luck.