Sexual intercourse and romance never align.
Coffee is consumed with hope,
satiety, with wine.
Pleasures multiply and soon
soiled and plain seems the cold moon.
She was wise to make me wait.
Romance is mysterious and late.
Even the poem is marred
when romance dies;
literature may be taught, in theory—
it lives truly in the lover’s eyes.
Everything explains everything—
we isolate poems in vain.
Without humor we were forced to sing.
Dully I escaped her exciting pain.