Love has made me stupid.
I can no longer write poetry.
I only babble about oceans of light
that break against my chest like roses.
Counting syllables or making words
rhyme at the end of the line -
that's just a way of protecting yourself
from colossal waves of silence
that want to breathe you;
from tides of sweetness that yearn
to pulverize your knowledge
into countless glittering jagged
grains of inexpressible joy.