Borges

Before the Ganges flows into the night,

Before the knife rusts, the dream loses

Its crescent shape, before the tiger runs

For cover in your pages, Borges, I must

Write the poem. Insomnia brings lucidity,

And a borrowed voice sets the true one

Free: lead me who am no more than De Quincey’s

Malay, a speechless shadow in a world

Of sound, to the labyrinth of the earthly

Library, perfect me in your work.