When you thought “I have not written
a decent poem in years,”
you then replied,
“Then write an indecent one.”

This was no help at all,
as was neither of the remembrances
you began to watch
of the buildings
of the people jumping from

the buildings,

then stopped, because
it is a kind of pornographic impulse
to return to such a thing
as if it could fill your heart
the memory not quite vivid enough

as if love itself was too broken
to hold us together.
Can we be held together at all?
If so, a poem will not do it.
Neither pornography.

We all agree, don’t we,
that we must be bound
together by
force? Shut us in, lock the door
and don’t let us out no matter

how loud
nor how long
we scream
for you to let us you
motherfucking beast.

It’s that kind of poem you
wish you could write.
One in which you could
swear, and it would seem
more than okay.
It would seem right.

To use words.
That are supposed to be
more meaningful than they are
and have them turn out
to be just the right words
at just the right time.

You imagine
you should read
more of your junk mail
because there, words are like
cash. The sort of cash
you think you could use

on a day
with the tv off
the radio off
the computer off
just words to tell someone

“I love you.”

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