In factories of desire
our defenseless, greedy hearts
get made. I saw myself first
in the eyes of my mother.

Love therefore doesn’t fade,
we kill it, and build the prison Me
to keep us off the streets
of You—mysterious monogamy!—

then snarl when,  look,
each frightens each. Thank God
for idealization. It doesn’t cloud
so much as clear the real: you are

                           the best, I say,
my futile, fragile best.