Contemplation

To defy the sunlight with our eyes

when poetry overwhelms the senses

is a joyful self-inflicted pain.

For a moment we are able to see

the playful malignity of what’s above

even though our eyes are sore.

There is just this blank feeling

of a sultry foam white — a magnificent

soft sand touch of ancient times.

It’s not like a still late afternoon

when cars enlighten the land

caressing our sight —

The golden watch is sublime,

suntuous as an emperor

never to be fully seen or undressed.

We slowly burn on the inside for hours

waiting for the touch of the heavy hand in black.

The counterpart is a delight for the blind.

I’m always the bare chalice

eager for the pagan rain.

My soul is the sunset…

(Dezembro de 2012)