Pablo Neruda’s “Walking Around” from memory:
It happens that I’m tired of being a man.
The smell of barber shops makes me sob out loud.
It would be delicious to knock a nun stone dead with one blow of an ear, a cut lily.
Something about underwear on the clothesline, teeth in a coffee maker.
I’m walking along on this stony path and nothing feels good but being a poet.
It happens that I’m tired of being a man just the same.
To run through the streets with a green knife, screaming of cold, dying of pain.
And on the next page there is this poem and how much I love writing it.