slower than a gull ́s over water lengthens, by inches,
and covers the lawn. There is the same ardor
of rhetorical sunsets in Sicily as over Martinique,
and the same horizon underlines their bright absence,
the long-loved shining there who, perhaps, do not speak
from unutterable delight, since speech is for mortals,
since at the end of each sentence there is a grave
or the sky’s blue door or, once, the widening portals
of our disenfranchised sublime. The one light we have
still shines on a spire or a conch-shell as it falls
and folds this page over a whitening wave.
MEIO DO VERÃO, TOBAGO
Praias amplas chapadas de sol.
Mormaço branco.
Riacho verde.
Uma ponte,
palmeiras amarelas chamuscadas
da casa sonolenta de veraneio
cochilando agosto adentro.