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Now that the poem is over,
You can go back to bed.
For him the poem is over a long time—
You read a poem by someone who’s dead.
Yes, once again, the poem lives on after its author—
You loved someone who doesn’t love you.
Aroused by a ghost, and just in time, because it’s true:
The worst tragedy is the itch which cannot be scratched—
They always said you were too detached,
When they did not accuse you of too much lust—
No wonder their inconsistency never earned your trust—
But this poem made you live again.
It was almost like an orgasm at the end.
Thank the poet as you ease into bed.
The only guys who love us are dead.
