Here’s another one from my grad school days. I remember it not doing well in the workshop. Oh, well. Methinks it’s good.

Us:
you and my foolish sensitiviy.

We seem strange now,
when before we shamed fireworks

by dying to each other so explosively,
never thinking it an unforgivable sin.

What worse than inventing pleasures
when pain is the dominant meter?

I have lost loves, though not enough
to expect such pangs from hunger

that chews, eats, but won’t swallow–
I’d rather be digested than linger.