Thursday, May 15, 2003

He arado en el mar.
(I have ploughed the sea.)
S. Bolívar

Raven feels restless.
He’s combing the beach hoping
for inspiration
during the lunar eclipse,
for some flight information

to appear and lift
him out of this tropical
He is ready to wing it,
now, just like in the old days—

freer than the bird
he has been here, hunkered down
in stale images
of waves, sand bars and palm trees.
He wants to sail on the big

wind currents again—
his beak aimed like an arrow
at the Andes, or
on to Patagonia—
his eyes ploughing the ocean,

planting reflections
of stars that burst into bloom
every moonrise;
in his retinae the failed
dreams of Simón Bolívar.

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