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The birth of the moon

“And here lies the sea
the sea where the stench of cities
comes to shine like stars.”
V. Huidobro

The sky is black
and the shirts
hanging on a wire
are ruined in the discomfort
of funeral parlours.

In this unlikely morning
(half the sky
weeps buckets, in the other half
two suns sing like goldfinches)
I take a step
to recompose myself.

In my left pocket
a beaver weighs heavily
breathing, below my eyes
a clear morning
turns its back to the tar
gluing up the estuaries.

I put myself back together
gazing at the divided sea since my body
is in seven unequal parts.

The moon goes by nervously
smoking, down the corridors
of the ocean.

The asbestos cities
shine like wax candles
in the clenched hands of the dead.

And I’m hoping.

barra azul

© 2009 Jorge Palma - -