Here in the dead letter office
Petrarch is angry  He gave us

romantic love so we would
never have to surrender

our monologues to
the beloved  Otherwise

the poem careens toward
collapse  Like Marilyn

Monroe swimming her
way into a palm

of Nembutal  We spend
all this time in the cellar

trying to get the night-
blooming acronyms to crack

open  As if there wasn’t
always more

cramped language
where that came from