I think you have to write poetry
when you have everything to lose,
I don't believe in inspiration but there is, there is.
they are vibrations in the fingertips
and the head frolics with words,
then beautiful things come out and your mother sighs
and your neighbor sighs, and a Spanish speaker who resides in Turkey
sticks a heart into your occasional poem,
and then you breathe feeling that maybe yes, that maybe
when you die your name will appear in literature dictionaries, that the son of a great flea who left you for
another mine is going to spend a day for a balance table
from a downtown bookstore and he will read your name (which will be almost
covered by a metal clip with the word OFFER) and it will rock
the hair.
I think we wrote for that
to kill the women who left us with disgust
and that they left us for types that one says is it possible?
but in poetry as in love it is known
that there are no insurmountable rules but strokes of luck,
pure luck, or inspiration if it sounds more important,
but I still maintain that this is easy
that even the most pelandrún writes poetry when he knows
that he has found the right image, the pertinent idea,
the word conclave,
I think you have to write poetry
when you have all to lose
there you really know if one is good or is a defective copy
of himself.
all this regardless of what the Spanish-Turkish speaker thinks,
that after nailing the little heart
he looks at his hands against the light of a window
and he disappears.