The poem virus
A poem has been swirling around me since yesterday.
It gives me a headache and vertigo.
I turn my head to the side.
At the edge of my vision
I discern it
thick stain
at the edge of my desk.
This is not personal—I say to it
I don’t want any more poems
nor steamships loaded with rice,
I am fed up with the oceanic voyages
on ships of high underwriter’s costs
a raft is all I want
in a plastic self-contained pool
in a yard full of rusted metal,
one restful body, a chair made of cloth
to rest
This I said to it.
And it took its revenge on me.
And it got filled by you and with you.
And it wrote itself.
Manolis Aligizakis 