I have
      not written
poetry to soften the fall,
    caring not for lovers
      breaking a suitor’s
      uncouth hands.

I have not
      written poetry to inspire
       the mob, should
      revolution prove us
       failure again.

I have not written
       poetry to elate the heart
         for it to sink
       once more.


I have not written poetry
      only this: labors
             of a silly idea
      that I could confine your stride
             to syntax, your grace
             with grammar, your song
             in unmelodious prose.

Thus, I have given up
          because words will
          not mediate
          your beauty.  

          That,
      or I am
   a very lazy man.