Edgar Allan Poe was Wrong
The perfect poem is about the death
Of perfect beauty. That is what glum Poe
Asserts, an ivory-like release of breath
From some Evangeline, a sigh like snow
From some expressive woman’s breast and lips.
Do you suspect he meant a young one clasped
Against her lover’s chest? What might eclipse
This, though? It is a man whom love has grasped
As harshly as a lion fangs the throat
Of zebra stallion. Beautiful young men
In love are gorgeous. Heart and ribcage bloat
With reddest passion, lungs expand, and then
A song, a sonnet, and a serenade
Explode, a valentine like a grenade.