I saw all the poets on earth choke on their words.
Just like scorpions are devoured by their offspring.
A stampede of iambic pentameters battered sonnets,
the only truce was vengeance, the only rancor oblivion.
A Dadaist knelt to offer his complete works to the sun.
Literary critics wrung their hands over a poorly structured metaphor,
as though aesthetics could save lives.
A captain, as the ship was sinking, lowered his rank and named
a mediocre poet admiral of all his rhymes.
I woke up in my house.
Snow threatened to keep falling until the day of my death.