HOMENAJE AL NERUDA
The interior
is an Arucanian tree
roots pushing into earth
in search of that
sorrow
which is also
the source of desire.
There are no politics
apart from this.
What blossoms from it
turns us into lovers
with the hearts
of tigers
(even in old clothes
even with gray hair
even in the uncertainty
that moves us forward
into uncertainty)
there is only this left
after everything else
falls away
she who waits
apart from ourselves
that part of
ourselves
we have missed
without realizing it
she who has searched for us
where we can’t
be found
and finding us
wraps us in her shawl
and sings
with the voice of our voice
a lullabye
in which a fledgling
rawness beats its wings
—Paul Pines