[there is no poetry, anymore]

we are
searching for love in all the wrong places;
we conceptualize, and idolize, and build
love out of plaster and wood, carving looks
and smiles and sweat out of its belly

we are
making love from paper and lead;
penciling dramatic pauses into normal phrases
imagining the perfect words collapsing onto
lover's lips

we are, all
wishing for perfection nonexistant because
we are not content with who we are
always wanting poetry where there is none