Monday, August 27, 2012

106. Insensatez

So soon forgotten,
nylon strings drift out the other
scarce registered
by one.

Bathed in the exotic, balmy
sun-soaked and
indeed these are sweet nothings,
measured not in single drops of
liquor caressing your
throat, rather
a forgettable nectar,
enigmatic, ephemeral.

It’s Portuguese to you,
it’s all the same lithesome
beauty that is so
foreign, so

It is what tourists
accept, yet do
not seek,
experience but do not

I could not expect more:
sitting like Turandot
enshrouded by cross-hatched
palm-leaf shadows.
As one breeze carries my
voice, futile, one shadow
to the next, I am
the only constant,
alone in my
impossible artistry.

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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson