The twenty poems
flailed before they died
gurgling after breath had paused
For there’s no subject
to my love
ungrammared and uncouth
And unspecific to a clause
prescribed inside a book
prescribed inside a larger book
That I forbade unswervingly
but in foreign tongues
which, knowing scarcely tails of,
Make me as the child,
who celebrates the fishes
in books of loveless poems.