When I loved you, Rosalinda,
I loved the vowels of your name.
The specifics I sought
Were, in the wind, the same.
A storm, the difference,
From what happened before.
A storm inhibited by the mountainous shore,
Where I would go bathing,
The sunset and the sand hardly worth saving,
For what is it about sunsets and sand,
Beyond peace, Rosalinda, one needs to understand?
Your arms were the first thing
Which made my senses sting.
I looked up and down them.
I loved the slight down on them.
I loved the wrists and the skin.
Your arms were my entrance to sin.
Arms have to be a certain way,
In the proportion to the body,
In the things they do by the side,
And they cannot be hairy or spotty;
No extraordinary poet who loved or cried
Could understand. Rosalinda, I lied
About my love for arms to everyone but you.
They desired a thousand things. I fell in love with two.