The Portuguese
balconies
are tightly wrought
with so little in
between
like lover’s arms
sought
at night in
breathless heat
when stars and Moon
come down to drink
what mortals keep
on their knowing,
fondly blissful lips,
kissed and all-offering,
with no but or if,
with no hideout,
without retreat—
Like the space that
isn’t
are those balconies
that teach how close
we too ought to be—
Como um puro amo.
Non less than a foot
inside.
No comments:
Post a Comment