More.

Post Office

It began as a mistake.

- Charles Bukowski

Today.

nesta manhã
a chuva

cola                                                                                                                        -se

nas folhas das árvores

enquanto tentam
respirar
famintas
pelo dia

a noite

interrompida

pela luz doente de um carro

demora a evaporar-se

a cada dia que passa

doem-me: mais as unhas
                mais os dedos
                mais as mãos





com o peso das palavras

.

 

Early.

 

iv, unto thee i

unto thee i
burn incense
the bowl crackles
upon the gloom arise purple pencils
 
fluent spires of fragrance
the bowl
seethes
aflutter of stars
 
a turbulence of forms
delightful with indefinable flowering,
the air is
deep with desirable flowers
 
i think
thou lovest incense
for in the ambiguous faint aspirings 
the indolent frail ascensions,
 
of thy smile rises the immaculate
sorrow
of thy low
hair flutter the level litanies
 
unto thee i burn
incense,over the dim smoke
straining my lips are vague with
ecstasy my palpitating breasts inhale the
 
slow
supple
flower
of thy beauty,my heart discovers thee
 
unto
whom i
burn
olbanum

- e. e. cummings