the life of a nearby poet was almost
lost in translation had it not been for
a probability of emoji ridden skirmish
in a late bank holiday spring. no-one
could imagine, upon crumbling desks
and dis-used ink blotters, such striking
permanence of an entire absence, and,
in a suddenness of ecstatic alliteration,
the seemingly poetic poet, who we will
call unlikely, would have simply died
a poets death among the classical drugs.
but luckily for us he's there. and there
he'll dangle, off horizons, behind ears.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem