mort mot juste

abril 24, 2007

a turbulence of limbs

Clamour coming from the baby jars!
(my trembling heart,
shudders of trees under
poor winter lighting)
I rush,
(and the constant buzz of the refrigerator)
I must be insane.

Milly, Sally, Lily, Molly:
four you are, three darks
and a blonde
three smiles and a
(sally often frowns.)

"Tricky children
go to sleep!"
No echoes, no wind:
that comfort which
I seek.
Assonance on assonance,
your heads
-my girls' heads-
sinking deaf in a jar of formaline.

Tomorrow, maybe;
the life that you
have been denied- maybe,
a scent of doubt and
green tea-
you could begin
to grow.

Assuming all of your eyes
I leave the room on tiptoe.

Oh Dear, Oh
Mighty God,
God of all
God of Gods,
God of chemists,
God of
gravediggers and
of nurses,
When will I finally fall asleep?

maria 3:05 PM 4 vociferando estavam

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