Poetry is holding eternity by its front curl, each time it passes through a transitory flicker.
It is seeing all winters in just a refraction of a water drop.
It is your face blushing whenever a firefly flames its lantern at a cave.
Poetry is filling a basket with lightening, to be kept for the darkness of your eyes.
It is seeing hurricanes inside yourself, each time a scarf flutters on a nymph’s waist at the long way between the unreachable desire and your two sighs.
It is your mirror flying through skies of another tale, each time you look at you in her.
It is a bed of peppermints greening on your lips, or columns of palm trees standing up on slopes of your eyelids.
Poetry is combing your hair by winds, and perfuming your face by a narcissus flower hanged from a book.
It is you becoming a potter kneading your own raw body with clay, each morning, by your own palms.
It is assembling spaces all into a needle’s hole.
It is clashing of stars in an old tale, inside the peeling of an apple.
It is the travels of place in time, at highways between your eyelashes.
Poetry is interweaving your cigarette smoke into a cloud traveling to the end of time, over sliding words.
It is to cleave a river by the R letter, so you can re-pass it twice.
It is trees planted in your chest fructifying birds which migrate from yourself to you.
It is water clusters hanging down from two ivory breasts.
Poetry is a lonely meaning flowering into a thousand ones, each time two contradictions embrace.
It is crying out, with utter hush, between two tones.
Poetry is being-not whenever you are, and being where you-are-not.
It is carrying your shadow on your back, and walking up to a road’s end without your legs.
Poetry is seeing the unseen. It is to open your eyes on one milky-way and to shut them down on an explosive pomegranate berry and two milky-ways.
It is searching for your heart fragments inside an oyster.
Poetry is the fog which gathers all paths in one sole path, and turns a lonely one into thousands more.