We can cut out Nemesis's tongue
By omission or simple analysis.
Doesn't this sin have to marry
Another, like a wishbone
Worked into meat, to grow
Deadly? Snared within
The blood's quick night,
Our old gods made sex
& wit, of nitrate & titanium,
Hurl midnight thunderbolts
& lightning. Are we here
Because they must question
Every death in an alley,
Every meltdown? We know
We wouldn't be much, if thorns
Didn't drive light into wet blooms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem