*Rouge Bouquet*
Obviously it was a mistake, those round eyes and
fully adherent lips circling the sea -
its
masculine voice drawing
giant shadows, bending hearts over
Sunday sandy fields - moistening what
would soon become
faces, sad faces embracing in long
velvet dreams, the sort that suck your
brain into the depths of
sugar lyrics and warm sperm; obviously
the mistake of counting waves, their
individual repetition falling as
thoughts against
skeptic flowering walls ready to shout
out
their spring meaning. However, their
silence
remains the rouge bouquet one drinks
before
love and death - garment of souls.
At such times the sun
as an ever lasting mother temple
shines its kindness and constancy
making it all seem so brute
and simple.
© 2018, José Coelho
