dislodged from a frame
of inspiration
(perhaps thinking that
the reason why
poetry is born is because
the muse is beautiful
luscious and
edible
&
so since there is no
one there anymore
with the muse trampled
upon
and there is no more
light
from the moon)
he quits and dramatically
ends with
a quip
that poetry is
dead
not bad, but not completely
true
poetry has no life
how can it die?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem