they say,
the poem still believes it
can be loved,
despite all its unkempt days,
the talking out of turn

and not going to church, despite
railing around wild-eyed
like a madman with news
of a Martian invasion. The poem insists

that its recalcitrance, its bad-girl
panache, its misgivings about
the “free market”
might be understood

as a kind of spiritual incandescence—
a sort of alarmist,
post-pubescent awakening—
that turns the world

into a bruised thumb
plugging a hole in the sky.
The poem is done with speed-dating,
nervous hugs, dancing at clubs
with its confident but mispronounced

sexual edge: it just wants
what it wants which is
to be wanted

without the cautiously probing,
faux-casual conversations
about its accents: the affectionate

anxiety about its hair texture
and “cultural background”.

Uh-huh, yeah,  
the poem thinks, shyly
looking a little to the left—
but do you love me
for me