Rough Stuff

I have too many poems about you.
Sorry for all that.  I don’t always know
A poem is yours until I’ve wrote
It.  You come crashing in.  This isn’t what I want.
I have been told to find what I love
And let it set my life.  Maybe someday

I’ll find something good.  I’m sure someday
I’ll sing poems that miss a different you.
A more productive type of love?
It’s silly of me, I know,
But I’ve perfected what I want
To say.  Here’s the letter I wrote:                                                                                                      

I dropped it into flames.  I have it memorized rote.
I’ll mail you the ashes someday.
Well, only if you want
Me too.  I hope this isn’t too much for you
Because you really ought to know
I ruin everything I love.  

I tried not to ruin you.  I said I loved
Black mountain skies and you said you wrote
Poetry that wasn’t any good and I know
You sold yourself short.  Could I read it someday?
And I can show this one to you?
I’ve decided what I want.

It’d better rain until it floods. I want
The valley to be a lake.  I’ll watch everything I love
Disappear below the waves.  Except you.
I’ll teach you to play that song I wrote.
The water will recede someday 
And whoever’s left is gonna know

I’m happy.  I know
All this is silly.  I want
It anyway.  Maybe someday
I’ll clean out my desk and say, “Look, love,
It’s that sestina I wrote.
Rough stuff.  I tried to make it good for you.”

You know, I think we did.  Love.
That’s what I wanted to write.
Maybe someday I’ll mail it to you.