A friend presents me
with letters of introduction
to a poet in Valparaíso
and a rich man in Santiago.
A collection is taken up,
until I hold a handful
of old Peruvian
gold coins.
I’ll arrive in Chile with nothing
but paper, a pen, this bit of money,
and the star of hope that still
warms my hand . . .
but there will be no way
to make a living
if my flawed poems
are rejected
by editors
who expect
perfection.