What does a dead octopus feel,
stretched under the blazing stare.
Torn white.
Arms exhausted from coveting.
And who's gonna feast on its dry limbs,
still carrying the silent memory of
a tortoise green undercurrent valse.
Monday, April 7, 2008
tortoise
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I fall through the cracks of my silence,
a promise I made at the end of one day
when acquiescence is no more than lack of resistance,
and nods are all there is.
Here, not because it is,
but because the memory of it resides
nestled underneath my breath,
peering from behind my fevered eyes
at the moment as it lapses.
Boa noite Meia
Here, where the silence is delicious, tanto se pode procurar, tanto mais se encontra. Obrigada e boa noite para ti também.
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