limit_4

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.

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