Be careful of words, even the miraculous ones. For the miraculous we do our best, sometimes they swarm like insects and leave not a sting but a kiss. They can be as good as fingers. They can be as trusty as the rock you stick your bottom on. But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words. They are doves falling out of the ceiling. They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap. They are the trees, the legs of summer, and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me. I have so much I want to say, so many stories, images, proverbs, etc. But the words aren't good enough, the wrong ones kiss me. Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
My mouth blooms like a cut. I've been wronged all year, tedious nights, nothing but rough elbows in them and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby crybaby , you fool !
Before today my body was useless. Now it's tearing at its square corners. It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot and see — Now it's shot full of these electric bolts. Zing! A resurrection!
Once it was a boat, quite wooden and with no business, no salt water under it and in need of some paint. It was no more than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her. She's been elected.
My nerves are turned on. I hear them like musical instruments. Where there was silence the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this. Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped into fire.
you said Is there anything which is dead or alive more beautiful than my body,to have in your fingers (trembling ever so little)? Looking into your eyes Nothing,i said,except the air of spring smelling of never and forever.
....and through the lattice which moved as if a hand is touched by a hand(which moved as though fingers touch a girl's breast, lightly) Do you believe in always,the wind said to the rain I am too busy with my flowers to believe,the rain answered
Sossega, minha Dor, não desesperes não. Reclamavas da luz; já se vai; finda o dia. A cidade mergulha na escuridão que alguns atormenta e outros alivia.
Enquanto dos mortais a reles multidão, escrava do Prazer, carrasco sem perdão, vai colhendo remorsos na mísera orgia, aceita, minha Dor, esta mão que te guia
pra longe deles. Vê como os Anos finados nos olham lá do céu com seus velhos brocados; no fundo d'água, a Saudade sorridente;
o sol mortiço sob a ponte se deitar; e, como mortalha que avança do Oriente, ouve, cara, ouve a doce Noite chegar.