Now the love poems that aren’t about being devoured Are about being executed. One can see the naturalness Of the line, how it extends, how it was thought Into the holes of the future by an unruly wish Under pressure.

Which is to say: You do not want To share a language, lover. You want to do something. You want to constitute an enemy. You want to organize. You want To learn. You want to work.

This punctured tire, the chairs Falling apart, the de-articulated toys around us. The fixable is here, now, slow, waiting, Violent and curled On the tongue of an impossible language. And when you kiss me you say see

We don’t need it. We don’t need any of it. Not This tired love, not someone else’s future. Not another poem about the lover’s body, however Bloused in coastal light or tenderly parted Into new forms. The songs that matter never stay written Down when there are plantations to burn—