FULL MOON ON TOP OF A CHAMPAGNE PALM'S TIP

in a situation like this,
you become a poet. It is
when the jar is emptied
and there is no water and
you are thirsty
and dying,

usually it happens that
way. I was once a child
frolicking. There was
poetry all around: sun rays,
beach balls, shore foams,
sands, and pebbles, soft feet,
and hermit crabs, corals and
seaweeds,

but i was not a poet,
it was beautiful then and
i was so innocent,

now, the road shortens,
my feet calloused, nothing
carousing, my lips crack,
my skin shedding off,
my bones hollow

time has a way of showing
a misfortune, and then you
write.

that is where everything
begins.