After Opening the New York Times I Wonder How to Write a Poem
About Love

To love like God can love, some times.
Before the kettle boils to a whistle, quiet.  Quiet
that is lost on me, waiting as I am
for an alarm.  The sort of thing I notice:
the bay over red bud blossoms, mountains
over magnolia blooms.  There is always something
starting somewhere, and I have lost ambition
to look into the details.  Shame fits comfortably
as my best pair of pants and what can I do
but walk around in that habit?  Turn the page.
Turn another page.  This was meant to be
about love.  Now there is nothing left but this.