This poem could have been a butterfly,

the paper stained with cerulean water-marks,

these lines, pulsing veins.


This poem could have been a mirror,

here is your image: you are a particle

and a whole.


This poem is a miracle


it wasn’t the most auspicious.


This poem was doomed

before its beginning,

should not have been written,

it is a poet’s cross.


This poem was born poor,

grew up poor,

will die poor.


This poem is made out of hay,

there's nothing in it,

not a needle.


This poem could have dreams and hopes,

meant for solitary readers

soaring inside a shut room.


This poem could be a plane ticket,

to go back somewhere,

or a window and a chair

to see the top of trees.


This poem could have been

anything, not everything 

in another flip of coins.



Javier Felix  Todos los derechos reservados © Javier Felipe 2014