These pleasures are real for me—
But they are not real for you, Rosalinda;
And it’s sad to think that nothing
Is really shared, for if pleasure isn’t shared,
What is? Two looking at a sunset or making love
Still feel a host of things the other doesn’t feel,
Or feels in a slightly different way,
So from one moment to the next
My pleasures, although they fly away,
Are mine to know, and no matter what I say,
My pleasures are not yours, Rosalinda,
Not even the pleasures I’m able to describe,
Such as how this poem gives me pleasure
As I write it, knowing I’ve found a truth—
Alienation is more profound than we know;
Pleasures can’t be shared; they belong
Inside our selves, where pleasure sensors are—
Intimacy is as distant as yesterday’s star.
And poets feel such exquisite shades
Of pleasure, belonging entirely to themselves,
Increased, even by their own poems—
Or decreased by these kinds of thoughts,
Rosalinda, and you cannot possibly see
How I see you by looking in my eyes;
The activities in me are barred to you;
Simple seeing itself is hearsay,
Even to another directly there,
And conversation, false report.
This is a kind of triumph; but only
In my poem, as much as my poem is true,
Eternally. And sad. Was it sad for you?