from the roof the cat spies
life leaving
on every train that goes by,
time trailing
on the aching metallic rails.
i hold a holiday in my hands,
a sad tune and your face
in my pocket.

you, who saw fjords and corals,
who arrived from subterranean
words and from what is left
to be said, who learned silence
in many languages and one day
flipped a coin to cheat
death, how many more verbs
do you need to go through
this pointless narrative?

you saw the days were little more
than this, and you saw right. on that side
of the sky, you have a better view
on the dawn. if you ever find
the little chick we buried
in secret and tears, in auntie’s
garden, ask for the
bow of his wings on moonless nights.
send me, when you can,
packets of rain drizzle, I like seeing
it paste the earth, dissolve
with the corn seeds
at the far end of achadinha.
meanwhile, i’ll carry on assembling
the telescope, with the instructions
you left me. you go where i can see you
and we’ll arrange an ice cream
halfway,
in the hour of childhood.

it has the most tired feet
on earth, the man had said
while the three of them carried
the hydrangeas: sitting on its back
the child looked at the donkey and
at life unravelling at each bend of the road
like a sepia photograph from which
one never comes back. a very long
time afterwards, on the same road,
she saw the man on his own, no donkey
no flowers, and recognised in herself
the immense tiredness of the world.

at the piano, a body primed
for everything to be born again
the fingered promise of return
to that circular meeting
place, where we no longer remember
who we are, nor for whom

i sense god, every night, in the lilies
of Monet. they watch over me,
this uncertain shadow that steadily
dies with me, they cover
with living sap the darkness of the house
and keep away demons
that hide in the slits of sleep.
in the morning, i gather the tender petals
fallen on the bed sheet, and with the sparrows
i whisper a prayer, a blank verse.