At Isla Negra, between Neruda's tomb and the anchor in the garden, a man with stonecutter's hands lifted up his boy of five so the boy's eyes could search mine. The boy's eyes were black olives. Son, the father said, this is a poet, like Pablo Neruda. The boy's eyes were black glass. My son is called Darío, for the poet of Nicaragua, the father said. The boy's eyes were black stones. The boy said nothing, searching my face for poetry, searching my eyes for his own eyes. The boy's eyes were black islands.