I think in epithet

And deadly rhyme.

I think I simply do it

To save time.

I do not ever say

“I love you so.”

I say, in Auden’s way,

“It’s sad to go.”

I see your face before me

And I cry,

Quelle peine! Nécessité!

How love doth die!

I have no subtlety

That’s truly mine.

What I call poetry

Is  others’ rhyme.

I thieve the threads

Of poets who are better;

I tear them into shreds

Or add a letter.

I think in epithet

And deadly rhyme.

I think I simply do it

To save time.