Borges

Before the Ganges flows into the night,
   Before the knife rusts, the dream lose
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.