Poetry, like love, is selfishness,
disguised as devotion to the non-self.
Poetry is pointless,
for it is linear or concentric,
always emanating from the ego into an empty world
(yes: the poem needs the world emptied by the ego to unfold itself).
Growing from one word into many
the poem pushes itself out of itself
(like the rosebud unbudding into a rose).
Therefore growing is disappearing.
And in the end we are left with these words,
blossoming without origin,
lined up by the mind that can deny nor read
the fading memories of possibilities unchosen.
A poem is a choice
that stops growing while coming into being.
It will always keep you within its borders,
like your lover in his or her embrace,
like your mother once held you at her breast:
Drinking your first milk
was the defloration of the universe
But will you ever remember?