Poem About Another Poem:

Not the one I’ve committed to memory, but rather the last one
I received from you. Already the others are unraveling

along my bookshelves, words peeling back to reveal names,
or worse, sentiments. The names, I know: Szymborska,

Kaminsky. The rest remains alien to me. Still, there I am,
the massive error, erred in favor of, and you, gracious enough

to write of tenderness, maybe the long trip we took together,
and on the same page, suddenly: loss. A convenient myth,

one I could recognize, favorably romanticize, and finally
the futility of our words, all those words, the humming greater

than the hummingbird, and when that goes as well,
there shall still be you, o legend, dear myth, not love.

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