I sleep on the roof, dogs bark through the weary stars
Head to sea, land to feet, halfmoon to the side body
I spin on the hard floor, unsleeping, unwriting
The child sun greets me, but my smile is merely implied thanks to a swollen lip (thanks to some winged bloodsucker) which I adorn with ointment of elderflower, or something akin, gifted by the second old lover in exchange for my words on cotton rag, a red shirt, four fingers of hair.
But worry not, I also received a decorated dress, sometimes worn as a shirt – skirt tucked to slacks.
But, the material exchange was never meant to be equal.

But, I was meant to write a song
But my poem hand runs long
And even with seeds of worlds and reads and ink spill
My knotted heart grasping still searches
This clouded mind bearing short hair and a long braid searches
I am left drawing circles descending from a crude heaven shape on a dirty page.

~
What is the shape? Golem? Roof?
I draw from my pocket a second tower
I reconcile my worth between the two.

~
Ou,
~

Qual é a forma, o golem, o teto
Tiro do meu bolso a segunda torre
Divido o meu valor entre as duas
Divido o forro, a camisa, é despida
É só morte acanhada no areal quente
É só cio lento
Ou, only stilldeath on sand
the tower’s second hand.

O café está queimado de novo
O braço fica preto no degrau de madeira
A língua vem buscar-me na árvore carregada
Levanto a voz até à altura da torre
Arqueio as costas rumo à torre
Acho histórias na mente vazia até ao topo da segunda torre
Aceito o meu descanso na torre também…

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