We could pump
poetry all we want.
But long before the sonnet,
we were hip
as mayonnaise
long before the packet
and long before
any other condiment
could catch up.
There was,
and still is rhyme.
We noticed it outside that cave
as it tickled our ears,
how our breath could texture
a rhythm around the fire.
Published by Punch Drunk Press,2017
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem