A poem can't be sold like music can, can't be sold like a painting, like a song can, nobody gives a dime, a damn, a poem don't live beyond its words, its dark and backward suns, can't be sold like prose can, only as if it were a story or the mocking echo of a poem, can't be sold like junk can, chunks of mango tree in a garden (or fragments of a garden hose), vats of burnt oil, even like a goldfinch can, singing in a trash dump, the black tongue of the sewers, where algae bloom, can't be sold like graffiti can, like a photograph or video can, or any arty film, can't be sold like a print or card can. Me, I'm a lousy trader in worthless things, beset by a plague of words. 

--Prose; Régis Bonvicino (trans. Charles Bernstein)