I don't have many love poems, for the reason you would guess.
[LAUGHS] But, well, I hope to have more.
[LAUGHTER]
Here's one.
This was one of those exquisite romances
that is exquisite partly because it's going to end immediately.
It's called "Aubade--" dawn song--
sort of like alarm clock.
Today above the gull's call, I heard you waking me again
to see that bird flying so strangely over the city,
not wanting to stop--
wanting the blue waste of the sea.
Now it skirts the suburb, the noon light violent against it.
I feel its hunger as your hand inside me, a cry so common--
unmusical.
Ours were not different.
They rose from the unexhausted need of the body,
presuming a wish to return--
the ashen dawn, our clothes not sorted for departure.