No Poetry After Internet
The book is an artifact, its dusty
leaves like layers of desert sand.
Bindings cannot stand the competition,
the glittering lights, graphic
flashiness of electric communication.
Take this ache and make it a web-page
this joy and make it an emoticon. Upon
the screen masses edit elaborate memorials.
Metaphor is dead. The poet a recycled
identity. Hold the Enter key to your lips
and press. Page Up, Page Down, Insert
Symbol. Control. Alt. Delete. Privately
a new generation of readers is busy
restructuring old verse, cutting out tongues.
The ultimate translation project:
The Word is already obsolete.
—Priscila Uppal
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from Live Coverage (Exile Editions, 2003)