How can I not end my poem here,
Where the sentence ends, as love draws near?
The end of all ridiculous poems approaches,
The play has ended, the enormous coaches
Are pulled up in front of the grand theater
Which housed an exemplar of illusion
For an hour, dispelling the vague confusion
Which attends on us in our days without end.
The audience, I love less, of which you were not one,
Choosing instead to stay home and make fun
Of everything history has done to us
Of which historians make such a fuss
In their impotence, and expect us to make a big deal about, too.
The play is long over. But my poem is just starting to fall in love with you.