SAUDADE

I am only in the final stretch of absence,
and distress, horizon ago in my dementia.

There, far away,
the wicked panorama,

I myself abandoned the resonant Confederation of her flesh!
Above all her voice,
shattered
within music
pipes—!

In the forbidden garden
                        —unanimous astonishment—
the deep-frozen auditorium of the moon.

Her remembrance is only a reverberation
within the architecture of insomnia.

God,
I have my hands full of blood!
And aircraft,
birds of these aesthetic climes,
will not write her name
in the water of the sky.