These days, not much to be heard
But sighing. Paint dries in tubes, the blank
canvas quickens with dust. Does not even echo
a name, or ask for light to dance.
Here is a handful of weariness-
I can’t even find a moment
to plan its demise.
Too much reality, too
out of focus to even cry.
And who gives a damn
how many sunsets burn my
Or stone-death frail trembling
arms. Neruda is dead and smoke is
around my head,