If you send someone a love poem
They will think it’s about them
And chances are that it is
For example
Neruda says that white clouds
Wave like handkerchiefs in the wind
The early fall sun angles light
That makes you feel sick to your stomach
With desire and loss
Neruda says somewhere else
Something about spreading ashes across your chest
I heard a woman sing on the radio
About not being “a problem you can solve”
And I misunderstood her because
I thought she meant that we are
What we are and not what we’re not
But she meant she is too complicated
Maybe she is
Who can understand anyone anyway
But the taste of someone’s mouth
And the texture of their hair
And the smell they leave behind
Is not a problem
At least not at first
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