I just hope she never discovers Sylvia Plath.
So, in honor of that. In honor of being sick with love and very young; some love poems that are only slightly deranged:
On a clear day you come pretty clean
and I can see you for miles.
I found tides of you
and boats white with destination.
I've found you
and you are lost again,
you do this easier with the cold.
I bought a big coat
to not think of you, it is not of you
that I teach school; I've buried myself
with books of penmanship, I can hide
from you while grading,
grading him, grading math.
But only on clear days
your house stands white.
And your brown smokestack
knows that I step on snowy steps,
on broken boxes to look deeply into you.
This morning, found
and found to be lost again,
I found a great land in your
deep wide steps.
you love others
You love others
and this drops me into a deep draining pit,
my neck is gone,
my toes went long ago.
Water stole my face and my name,
and it can not matter because you might be in love.