Anchor
This rusted anchor, left on the rocks, can’t anchor
anything anymore — small craft, boats — nothing;
only itself, not even that. The memory of the voyage
and the desire have dried up on it; it lets itself
to trust completely the relief of its wisdom (not its own)
in the silent workings of the rust that changes its
hardness into a blissful, endless, brown softness,
filing after filing on the sun-drenched sand where
the boys descent, at high noon, to swim.
Libros Libertad 