The poems don’t love us anymore

The poems don’t love us anymore
they don’t want to love us
they don’t want to be poems
Do not summon us, they say
We can’t help you any longer

There’s no more fishing
in the Big Hearted River
Leave us alone
We are becoming something new

They have gone back into the world
to be with the ones
who labour with their total bodies
who have no plans for the world
They never were entertainers

I live on a river in Miami
under conditions I cannot describe
I see them sometimes
half-rotted half-born
surrounding a muscle
like a rolled-up sleeve
lying down in their jelly
to make love with the tooth of a saw

(do senhor leonard cohen)