What to make of this poet
who always makes the best of things,
who sees sorrow, but sings?
Who would shed all his sentiment for you
to simply be true?
Who makes a science of gladness
in rare mixtures observed even for the sake
of loneliness and sadness?
Who looks at life through the telescope of poetry
at stars the most melancholy,
as silent and unmoving as they are,
yet turning in the mystery
of what all scientists call “star?”
A poet who knows exactly what a love was lost
and when it was lost—
somewhere between August and September—
and what it cost—
Rosalinda, do you remember?
Almost every heartbreak is the same.
Except who we blame.
This poet, the one this poem remembers,
weakly remembers
only calendars and their Septembers.
Septembers—and maybe you.
You made him shed his sentiment for the true.