2010
01.08
01.08
When all the poems have been written,
and the saffron robes of the last king
have swept a dusty palace floor,
and a forlorn light on a metal dome
is the only sign of human life,
Someone hunched over a fire,
deep under the frozen planet,
will say I wrote something.
His friend will reply
it can’t be a poem;
all the poems have been written.
well, says the first, for now, I will call it
a poem.