“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.
