Quiet Sun

the green creeps along the moist air
morning bells twinkling in dove and wet bark
takes me sixteen years back
i didn’t think in english then
nor french, nor portuguese
i thought in green and gray
and beach, and play
my skin was made out of clay
tropically sealed in sunburn

the tint of the streets at night
bathe in drizzle and memory
his hands were large and strong
and his name sounded like mine
and my laughter sounded like his last night
it echoed on the old house tiles,
looking out onto the garden
the air charged with earth


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