This poem is taken from PN Review 58, Volume 14 Number 2, November - December 1987.
Agave
I am neither useful nor beautiful,
Have no pleasing colours or scents;
My roots eat into cement,
And my thorn-edged leaves -
Sharp as swords - protect me.
I'm mute. I speak only my plant language,
Hard for you, man, to understand:
An out-of-use language,
...
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