“Is this love,” O’Hara wrote,
“Now that the first love has finally died,
Where there were no impossibilities?”
After you have swum and drowned
Diving in will terrify—
There’s marble at the bottom, dear:
Your bones and heart will break on stone.
but maybe we can float, you say—
Hoping such a thing exists
when broken hearts have come and gone
and come again.
You’ll dive in somewhere else, you say
The poet got it wrong—
There’s one thing left for you to do
You’ll find another river.