You produce no beauty,
But are the beautiful one;
A flower without a seed,
A want without a need,
A cold and cunning sun.
You make a lovely picture,
In high-heels and black-brown hair—
But that’s a false picture, without intention, or care.
You move without a conscience, a spasmodic will.
You once ran to stay with me,
Now you run away from me.
A mountain soul weeps before a dark and silent hill.
You drew me in: a beautiful accident,
A beautiful burning which came, burning; and, burning, went.
Was there death in you, before you were sent?
I saw you in the custom house, I saw you in the square,
I saw you at the florist.
But none had seen you there.
You produce no love,
But are the lovely one,
A sky with a sunset per minute
But never any sun.
You once ran to me.
Now you only run.
I was the high card sent to your winning hand,
But you folded; you had no courage or confidence
(You never had a winning hand),
A bluff took all your pleasure, a bluff took all your land.
You are the beautiful one, with beautiful shape if you stand or sit,
Who announces to the world: “This is it.”
A rainfall never falling on root or leaf,
A sigh never landing on a fond ear,
A tear never falling for another; just for yourself, a tear,
Your beauty never making a beautiful belief.
You produce no beauty,
You produce no song.
How can it be that poetry
Could be so wrong?
