Though time eats books, my poems will survive.
Catullus’ works turned up; some Sappho too.
I have translated them. I write to you
as they did to their muses when alive.
We do not know how Lesbia did her hair
or Anactoris; all the girls are dust
that poets wrote about in love or lust
then died as well. Their poems are still there
to tell us still how love was now and then,
obstacles, yearning, anger, hand held tight
the conversation on the second night
about a cat she owned when she was ten…
In China or on Mars, she’ll read this rhyme,
some woman who will love you across time.