It’s always April underneath your arms

Four hundred years too late. I cannot write
of coral lips or ruby anything.
Comparisons of eyes and suns are trite;
roses are best avoided. I can’t sing
about you in a language poets made;
English belongs to advertising men.
Poems alter nothing, Auden said
but had he never seen the reporter’s pen

sentencing millions? Let me praise you then
as best I can in words dressed for the day.
The credits roll. It’s spring. The sunlight calms
the grass; birdsong drenches the woods again.
In other words, I think I’m trying to say
it’s always April underneath your arms.

Ross Cogan