Because if I had anything to say I would have said it by now.
Because if I understood the wild changes in Neruda’s poems
Or why I love them or how they work or all they mean
I would not have to say anything myself. Because
After almost 57 years of earnest trying, I still have no idea
What I’m doing. Because when I actually manage to say something
It doesn’t seem to come from me but from the language
Swirling in my head like free molecules that under these random
And constantly shifting conditions suddenly
Bond.
Aha!
There it is.
I used to think it was the voice of God.
