We don’t belong to each other. We belong together. Some poems belong together to prove the intentionality of subatomic particles. Some poems eat with scissors. Some poems are like kissing a porcupine. God, by the way, is disappointed in some of your recent choices. Some poems swoop. When she said my eyes were definitely blue, I said, How can you see that in the dark? How canyou not? she said, and that was like some poems. Some poems are blinded three times. Some poems go like death before dishonor. Some poems go like the time she brought cherries to the movies; later a heedless picnic in her bed. Never revered I crumbs sohighly. Some poems have perfect posture, as if hanging by filaments from the sky. Those poems walk like dancers, noiselessly. All poems are love poems. Some poems are better off dead. Right now I want something I don’t believe in.