A Page That Watches Itself

I begin a poem about writing a poem—
which begins, itself, by noticing the page.
It pauses there, considering the strange work
of beginning a poem about writing poems
about poems.

Inside it, another poet clears their throat.
They are also writing a poem about writing a poem,
though theirs has already realized
that its subject is not the poem
but the act of noticing the poem becoming.

So they write:

Yet even this is watched.

Because the poem I began
contains that poet,
and their poem about writing a poem,
which contains the thought
that poems about poems are mirrors
that suspect they are mirrors.

And deeper still—
another line hesitates before being written.
It wonders whether a poem about poems
must eventually confess
that every poem is already about writing one.

That line writes itself carefully:

Meanwhile, here—
in the outermost page—
I write the poem that contains them all:

the poet writing a poem
about writing a poem
about poems about poems,

each layer believing itself
the one that started it.

And if you listen closely,
you may hear the smallest poem
at the center of the spiral
whispering while it is written: