I do not need odic rati
And the austere beauty of elegiac.
As for me, poems all should be out of place,
Not so, as people.
When you knew, from what rubbish
verses grow, without shame,
As yellow dandelion fence,
As mugs and quinoa.
An angry shout, tar smell fresh,
The mysterious mold on the wall ...
And verse already sounds, zadoren, loving,
To the delight of you and me.