Isla Negra

For what were all the empty
bottles, Mr. Neruda? For what
purpose the ashtrays, anchors,
mermaids, glass-eyed
fish?

I suppose I had been naive
to expect that verse
might be liquid there, crashing
on the black shore; but there
was only a pile of junk
that one man loved, a snack
bar and cameras recording
collections, bathroom tiles,
the stones atop your mortal
remains.