Cunhal das Bolas
A pair of minted walls
of spheric
balls
licking the air
warm, from the passing mornas
tanned
and from the fados
throbbing
around in corners
Beside the sun, fondles
stones
askew
and uncovers
legs, bare shoulders, breasts
molding themselves
to clothing
short, transparent
from the use, from the city, from the
neighborhood
voices, steps, break
windows
open up and eyes
lurk
In the lines, the traces are
intimate
washed, they drip
drying in the sun
and at the sidewalks, indelible
signs
outcrop
to the consciousness of fleeting
joyfulnesses
at the corner of Rose Street
Cunhal das Bolas
a gloomy
alley.
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