terça-feira, 5 de maio de 2015

The cradle of spinach

the spoon has seven
drops of lemon juice
and the hanged arm
over a neckless turtle.
I drop the lighter on
your shoulder and
swallow the vicious
conception of dereliction.

it holds my head under a
sweaty armpit and spits over
the closed night;
the reckless body of a
newborn dancing over
my face – the butterflies.

harvest my smile;
close the door before
you leave and let me
stare at the empty walls;
the whiteness of dementia.
if I ever was enough
to love perfectly,
I did nothing right
on purpose. 

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