You thought you could control your love affairs.
Well didn’t you, assuming thought at all?
But you in charge meant you grew bored. Your prayers
for keeping passion up you doomed to stall.
I know because my history reflects
a like disease. I chose my mates so I
would hold the reins, but such control injects
mistrust and drags love down and makes it die.

And now our Furies catch and sport with us.
They make us meet electrically and warm –
but we resist and rail, retreat and fuss –
and keep demanding shelter in a storm
we built with substances and endless work,
and what we share is acting like a jerk.