"Of Will," translated from the Portuguese by Alexis Levitin
Of the scratches sculpted
by a hand
only those that glow
survive.
A nomad, morning
strips bare the sun
on the surface
of the flesh,
multiple,
in the giddiness of language.
There are no floodgates
No paths prepared
No Saharas
or Viennas
In everything a battle
bedecked
with flowers
and coffins.
In everything a carving
on the other side
of things that show themselves
but don’t surrender,
that only in a verse are seen,
in the peeling of the underside.
(Offenses that in exile
drown the lyre
crimson red,
record through jubilation,
erase through rage.)
The breath of rhythm’s second chance,
the intimacy of unvoiced ways,
the breath of will, the breath of days.
