Am I the only poet
who’s had more than one love to speak of
And still believes himself
to have no love which holds him back?

Am I the only poet who does not see his soul
as a heap of broken bones,
or a never ending serenade of wonderful?

Am I the only poet who is not odded by truth;
who does not crush under discord
like he’s garbage in a compactor;
whose heart does not burst then rebuild
every time he hears, or tells, a lie?

Am I the only poet
whose moments ended upon their next;
who feels love because it’s true-
who hasn’t the need to qualify it,
or contemplate its merits,
because it is implicit to us all,
not something we learned to do?

Tell me, surely, that can’t be true.