Who's Afraid of Pablo Neruda?

The street light on the corner faded to a flickering, blood-red wound, and when I woke up at dawn it stood there, black and solemn, like a burned-out match.

I fear that I loved you so much I made you up. Wrapped in a towel, I look for evidence of your being here; your empty coffee mug on the table, a pound coin on the kitchen floor...

Sunlight dribbles down the learning curve of my back as I arch over you, bridging the gap of years, experience, and tears.

And now, what is left after the end of the world? The dark smell of brown sugar in an empty kitchen, my cousins playing cricket in the park...