My poems are a translated love; you can feel the lover. This was written by someone who knows how to kiss. Byron, old poems, are safely dead; Rosalinda, I know, I know; analyze a prose poem, instead; frowning, not loving; new; written for anyone, not you. Today the poem is workshoppped professionally; everything's complete; the teacher has been paid. This, however, feels like it was tossed on the internet to get the poet laid. How yucky. This line is sticky; it smells like red wine. Give me the nerd, the university, the book, glossy and blurbed. The New York Times reviewed. That's how it's done. The museum. The nice watch. The Abstract Nude.