This Big Vertigo
It's hard to make out
until where
the horizon is
Let us think of that
turgid, shapeless thing
penetrating. In us
landscapes of concave
breasts, clay
hoisted sails beseeching
far away, the sea
so far, it's just about
smell, sometimes
there are names that rise
and stand up
hurt, full of pride
between us and the horizon
the big questions
formulated in dreams'
matter, slide
warm by the sand without
even touching it
and we carefully. Let's
think
about the shadows that
were synonyms
of light - quasi mass
only -
and about the mountains
that often
were born, skimming the
sky in gray whirlwinds -
come join us, die as happy
as these
stones – one would feel
the great
vertigo
hot - pulsating delirium
and saddened
ties in the wind -
close, so close it
swallowed
the hours, the feeling.
Today
it's hard to see it
clearly.
©
2018, José Coelho
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