The next page
will be free.
The space
bellow the last words
my heart wrote.
How beautiful
the white is!
In the purity of a white page,
all possibilities are eternal.
I suggest a poem
to make Neruda weep,
to conquer all hearts:
Pessoa, Camus, Cervantes,
and the illustrious english gentleman;
the author ought be you.
The critics will insist
on a structure,
a method.
So,
take a fresh paper
and separate from the others.
Leave it there
being beat by time
everyday,
just like you and I.
As life goes on
hold it from time to time
but write no verses on it
no stories,
a tear or two
that makes its way on it
it’s ok
just don’t make a habit of it.
Leave the page there
vast with whiteness.
If glory
is what you are after,
before you die,
mail it to someone;
one of those contests
that spread like carcinogenic
entities everywhere.
Send it to them
if you must,
your white page,
as old as you
and the tree that made it,
and the page
will be unique,
filled with you.
