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short poem

eu estou cantando-lhe
de nossos lugares escondidos
de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
talvez
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
tropeçando acima, caindo para baixo
os corredores de mármore resounding longos
quando o véu dos olhos for levantado
caras bonitas, tragical
existir da cisne
eu ganhei a raça
ame-me no último, ou se você não
lá pela janela na casa velha
como um homem despido mim vai

 



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