‘Lucid but dislocated',
the most suitable epitaph.
‘You have disturbed my tongue,
you have stopped the flow', you could add.

And yet, you morbid savants, you would be wrong
to concentrate on this or any other wound:
the poetic Is are a whole throng
just like the non-poetic Is.

Finally, with a totally invisible hand
and unctuous graphite, somebody also writes,
on the smooth wall or the scratchy brick:
‘every I is an exaggeration'.

Translated by Graham Thomson