You have been my woman’s lover now for seven years, ever since your two souls met at La Isla Negra.
i thirst always for that poetic mouthful
You rise dressed in peach
A fist against a table made of sand
They’re exhuming Pablo Neruda To put his old bones to the test Determine if he was murdered At the Capitalists’ request.
in a world of men too drunk with competitive contempt