Now I try to imagine that sharp talent I am missing, always
Impinging seems forbidden, the fine red ink of failure, of loss.
 
Pressing up against it, the sustained effort is exhausting
If my hand could extend across, I could collect dreams
 
Death by pressing was a means of execution of a poem
It’s how they killed the witch Giles Corey in Salem in 1692
 
He had definitely crossed the line, but no one gathers stones
For my transgressions, too common to be made an example
 
I try to describe that poem that made my wife cry
But my translation is diluted to nothing by want and regret
 
I will yell at birds, display the furs of endangered animals and
Run through ordinary poems with an ornate scimitar.
 
But not tonight, I must take out the trash, start the dishwasher
And give some kind of medicine to the dog.
 
In the year 1054 a star exploded into the Crab Nebula
A few Chinese astronomers saw it happen, recorded it
 
All the other humans were busy with chores, or their dogs
And they, and we, only see beautiful diffuse remnants.