Every poem has been for me,
No matter what I say, or do.
I was in a crowd, and announced,
“This poem is for Rosalinda!”
It wasn’t true.
It’s not easy to escape one’s poems.
As children to their mother, they cling to me.
Every poem a squishy mark of vanity.
The understanding is: I wrote this.
Yes, Rosalinda was meant for each kiss,
But each kiss was delivered for my sake:
I trembled and quaked.
A poor drawing of Rosalinda’s eye
Is nothing to Rosalinda. That was my
Folly—I deserve my fate
To strive long hours, to make poems for Rosalinda
That are neither interesting or new.
When love’s aim is love, it always ends in hate,
For in love, nothing aimed is true.
A good rendering of Rosalinda’s face
Only means, “look at me! I’m good!”
Bad or good still equal her disgrace.
Good, or bad, is still false, and forever.
My poems can never be for her.
Unless dear Rosalinda read
In my poem’s desire her poem’s need.