The Opening Poem
Was one you wrote in high school, coming to school high,
scratching on your desk two initials in the wood.
It was love you felt for the first time, strong,
strong, but finite as a poem, something
you wish would have lasted somewhat longer,
though you seemed to wash those feelings off
just as easily as the words that you scrawled
in ballpoint pen upon an arm. I have grown tired
of all this pious talk, of crude, crude poems,
of the questions that branch out towards me
like a stalk. You were ugly from the first moment
I saw you. So ugly, in fact, that it was perfect.
You were sublime. You were like the opening poem
that dragged me in with its first line.