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A Moon for Neruda
Through the window the moon nests
in the highest branches of a pine
like a great egret
of plumage so white that it hurts.
immobile a moment, it seems
a luminous figure in the shape of a mermaid
on the prow of the galleon of night
that cuts through the spindrift of the stars
to cast anchor on a black isle
where the poet drowns in his books
brought to him by one of his slaves,
he no longer knows if Caliban or Ariel,
if to free him from insomnia
or sink him more deeply in dreams.
The moon disentangles itself
from the branches of the pine
& continues its course.
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