Dear Pablo, as I look over
my soaking body, wet, with patches
of dirt, blotched and raw bleeding,
the clouds turn in my yellowed eyes
in order to love you, my Pablo.
You, who made me feel radiant.
As I am the sea, I fish for you,
rolling in mud, and becoming
mountain, I topple for your toes
who'd dig in deep and itch my aching
breast to sleep. My dreamful-drowsy
birds, rake the skies, rush-out like nets
wanting you on their wings, my poem.
Pablo, I loved you so when you said,
my flowers were little stars to pick,
and that loneliness was a train who waits
in a far-away station, and how, my most
minuscule attributes — a cat, a pear,
the atom, you praised, in odes, heaped
like showers hailed from heaven, as fresh-
water you reigned from the other side
of tears, and temper'd my salt, my green,
murky life. Dearest Pablo, since you've gone,
my breath has the emptiness that hides under
stone. And the blue-winds crossing, my life-
less age, they are nothing but long waves,
keening, — Nay — rood — ahhh!
Since you have left me. And my trees,
they forget how to grow,
my song, my only,
Pablo.
