My avid gaze
spoke to the rosary
of your flesh
My heartsick tremors
marked me as a wanted man
and burned the villages
of my ancestors
I was a refugee
from time
a friend to no man
My tears washed the blood
from my hands
my eyes withered
the tender bud
So when did I read poetry
on your lips?
Did your mountains fracture
and disintegrate into
sparkling shards
as mine did?
Was the moon an egg
in your basket
as it was in mine?
Little do we know
of the other
when first we clasp hands
and agree
In time
and with luck
we learn.
I tried to write a poem in the style of Pablo Neruda.