The plague you have thus far survived. They didn’t.

Nothing that they did in bed that you didn’t.

Writing a poem, I cleave to “you.” You

means I, one, you, as well as the you

inside you constantly talk to. Without

justice or logic, without

sense, you survived. They didn’t.

Nothing that they did in bed that you didn’t.

Frank Bidart is an American poet. This poem appeared in the February 16, 2012 issue of the magazine.