THE POEM I DELETED BEFORE I WROTE THIS ONE

was curved 

like the intricate

folds of a rose petal;

each line—frail 

and furtive and perfumed 

with allusion—

would bend back 

on the last in soft 

laps of recursion  

to cradle 

at its absent center

such untarnished answers 

to all of my 

most pressing 

metaphysical questions 

that each seemed 

to gleam like a galaxy

of water, 

spiraled-out 

and kissing its neighbor 

in the interstellar void. 

And yet, 

despite the untold wonders 

of insight it contained, 

I feel better 

just for knowing 

I am willing to destroy

and satisfied 

that I have passed a test 

I often flounder at:

that of applying 

the courage required 

to extinguish information 

whether or not 

I am sure of its value—

and whether 

it's equal to 

or greater than the hubris 

of creation.