hen I close a book

    I open life.

    I hear

    faltering cries

    among harbours.

    Copper ignots

    slide dos

    to tocopilla.

    Nigime.

    Among the islands

    our ocean

    th fish,

    touc, thighs,

    the chalk ribs

    of my country.

    t

    clings to its shores, by dawn

    it wakes up singing

    as if it ed a guitar.

    the oceans surge is calling.

    the wind

    calls me

    and Rodriguez calls,

    and Jose Antonio--

    I got a telegram

    from t;Minequot; Union

    and the one I love

    ( out)

    expects me in Bucalemu.

    No book has been able

    to wrap me in paper,

    to fill me up

    ypography,

    s

    or was ever able

    to bind my eyes,

    I come out of books to people orchards

    he hoarse family of my song,

    to als

    or to eat smoked beef

    by mountain firesides.

    I love adventurous

    books,

    books of forest or snow,

    depth or sky

    but e

    the spider book

    in w

    has laid poisonous wires

    to trap the juvenile

    and circling fly.

    Book, let me go.

    I  go clothed

    in volumes,

    I dont come out

    of collected works,

    my poems

    eaten poems--

    they devour

    exciting happenings,

    feed on rougher,

    and dig their food

    out of earth and men.

    Im on my way

    in my shoes