After Neruda

I know nothing. When I wake,

shadows bare their teeth, dawn
wears a frown. I know nothing.
The ear of a cat is my companion;
the tail of a dove, my enemy.
I know nothing. Out of wry smiles
and dainty hollows, I make machines
and call them poems. Out of mahogany
and sawdust, I make a woman
and call her a machine. I know nothing.
When I gather all my nothings together
like stray buttons in a cigar box.
Generous thieves confront me with zippers.
I know nothing. The ache
of the dandelion at the center
of the skyscraper tells me nothing
and the onion at the dandelion’s
heart even when threatened
with tears remains a silent bean.