Pablo Neruda

If only the passion with which
Pablo Neruda writes were to
be found in every kiss, every
touch, every fluttering eyelash.
If only all lips were the shape
that he implied they should be
and all hearts beat as hard
as he said his beat to see her.
If only I summoned that
natural intensity, that unbridled
that lack of boundaries,
that home-coming to a lover.
If only I did not know who
Pablo Neruda was, so that
I did not know what I am
now missing to not be him.