The statue of limitations on how long
she can love him
has run out,
she thinks. She thinks? She thinks:
Beware those who provoke you to write poetry.
She wrote «statue» meant «statute», statue’s better
anyway, more honest to the reality of how limited it is,
this container we live in, slowly dying.
Was there ever a poem that wasn’t about death?
Her Italian friend would say,
Past is past, okay?