Photo romances of the conceptual heart.
Of the navy blue strapless dress.
I swallow insults but with sincerity.
Giddy with good sense.
Aerial of the square.
Artist of savings.
Lust for the perhaps.
Water in my mouth.
An angel that registers.
To confront desire
I insist on the evil of writing
but I don’t know if the goddess comes up to the surface
or if she just punishes me with her howls.
From the bulwarks of this boat
how I long for the mermaid’s breasts.
love is here
on this open veranda
night falls over the city
on the small constriction
on your breast
anguish of happiness
a sudden recoil from the plot
I put all the leftover papers away.
I make sure of the soundness of the locks.
I never said another word to you.
From the top of the hills of Petrópolis,
With a pointed hat and a watering can,
Elizabeth confirmed, “The act of losing
isn’t hard to master.”
I rip up the leftover paper.
“Your eyes sin, but your body
doesn’t,” said the precise, simultaneous translator,
and it was his hands that trembled. “It’s dangerous,”
laughed the skilled Carolina on Kodak paper.
The lowdown camera panned.
The voiceover in the hills, indestructible
tamed fire of passion, the voice
of the mirror of my eyes
denying all the journeys,
and the shrill voice of speed,
I drank a little of all three
like someone looking for a thread.
I never said another word to you,
I repeat, I state firmly,
late at night
while I lose direction
with no luxury
the seemings I heard in an endless day:
without seeming more like the dazzling light of this
same interminable day