Poetry
is becoming that
gets stuck in the
rough, cracked
cackhanded flawlessness
of the unnamed
its completion
is chance, the haltingly
unspoiled from its
crooked pen
poetry
does not polish what
it says, it scours itself out
in its tarnishing
Translated by John Irons
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem