You’re not supposed to like this poem.
Yikes—what I mean is, you must like me.
I am gone soon. The nightingale
sings here—for eternity.
This poem makes the introductions,
and in its learned wake,
you discover me (whatever that is)
loving you. Not Shakespeare. Not William Blake.
Me. I wrote this poem. Poetry
not yet on the shelves of the library
but in your heart, a fresh flower,
written for you this very hour,
the evening clouds descending for you.
This poem is made to tease you,
annoy you, but in the end,
I promise, please you.