Born to write,
Constantly translate, and
hate rhymes.
Grind nibs and swallow,
eat, tear the paper on
which words haven’t spilled
in circles, that threaten to
eat you.
Finding no paper, and then
turned to write, lifting
skirt, and on yielding
thigh. Five and a half
love poems, and half of a
sour suicide.
A word then leaps and
strangles, how dare you
use me without
the permission of the suffix.
Poetry, pottery,
you will be the death of me.
Translate, still hating rhymes
and then writing to die.