Telling you I love you made me love you.
That’s what poetry can do.
It doesn’t matter if you or I ever meant this to be true.
Love has a sister: desire. And desire looks for a way.
But desire, being desire, never knows what to do.
Desire rises from her nightly bed and stands speechless before the day.
Love, to really love, needs to hear what the poets say.
A poet comes from the east, wearing purple and yellow and red,
And the poetry is alive, even when the poet is dead!
Look where Emily Dickinson down to the darkness is led.
Now law says there will be a husband and he will come to your bed
And if he does not please you, you may leave him, is what the law finally said.
Now this is what love says to you when she reaches for you in bed:
When you have a moment, will you remind me what the poem you composed for me said?