Poetry is everywhere, said the poet, a grandfather, sweetly,
And everyone is a poet, he said.
But in Dante’s Inferno, there is no music.
In porn, I hear cries, but not songs.
Nightingale and swallow have no words
On the boughs. What were these sounds once? I only hear
What I thought, for a moment,
Was “God, pity me,” in the sarcasm
I heard once from my lover.
I knew her a long time ago. She is,
No doubt, greatly transformed
From what she was.
Over here, gluttonous poets are ghosts,
Taking the flapping of startled doves as applause.
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POETRY IS EVERYWHERE
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