There in the Heavens

A poem whose body was robbed from Pablo Neruda.

​There in the heavens
Among the roving planets,
This ballista
Amid the turning
Spheres,
An arrow
That roved
Now shoots before my eyes,
Green.

You are above
Our earth’s straight rows
—these stars,
Constellation clutches--
Only You
Are
In the heavenly arches, living,
The vast hall, the
Darkness
Like light, the brilliance
Of the sky,
The echoing
Chorus,
The sea in the sky,
But nothing--
No Mars,
No Venus,
No sun or moon
Before that celestial architecture.

And so many
Black dots
Impelled
From the mountain trails,
Hollow
Filled
Proffering your
Bright halo,
Flashing,
Reflecting,
Perpetually intersecting,
A blackness scored
Like stars
In the crushed earth,
In the collapsing
Of 
The
Avalanche
Desires,
Like a tumbling stone,
Wind-chime, a dull,
Abraded cone.

Silent
Within each neighbor
King released
Of every river;
To be
White as the sprung rime
Of spring antarctic
To be corncake
Heavy on stalk, once
Infolded
Cortex striving;
In every face
This
Is the only face
That contains every face
Out of this
Way station
From nothing…
It is
The only but the all sheathe of the corn
Amidst the shadowed stones,
Its letters and words
Black
And leaping
As if it were still
A ship from the horizon,
The first
Kindly
Creature
Of the sky: tumbling,
Spawning,
Creating now
The fields of its habitation.