Neruda

After the light and the joy had settled,

I held a glass of wine and learned Neruda. 

Upright against pillows and sunken in warmth,

Question after question was asked 

Of the sea,

Of death’s bones,

Of Hitler’s hell,

Of autumn’s yellow. 

I waited for words that wouldn’t be said to me,

And for a smile only hinted at. 

 
 What train set me here in time?

Who must the cuckoo's listen to?