These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man  
who would leave his wife and child because  
they made noise in his study. These are the poems  
of a man who would murder his mother to claim  
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man  
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not  
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,  
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s  
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These  
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant  
as elm leaves, which if they love love only  
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,  
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.  
These poems, she said…
                                       You are, he said,
beautiful.
                That is not love, she said rightly.