Classic Poem

I try to keep
falling in love
if only to keep
death

at bay.

I know
that the burned
witches,
that the seared flesh
of the enemy-

O we are all
each other's
enemies,
even sometimes those
who lately
were

lovers-

are not
to be reconstituted
nor healed

by my
falling
in love;

& yet
here is
the paradox:

love drives
the poem-

& the poem
is
hope.