VILLA NOVA DA SERRA
The mountains are as dull and sodden
As drunkards' faces,
And the white forgetfulness of rain
Is like a delirium.
Along the filthy crooked streets of the little town,
Street lamps float in pools of mist—
The eyes of children being beaten.
RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS
Like inexorable peace,
The mists march through the mountains.
One by one the grim peaks sink into the cold arms
of the unspoken.
The little town with the pink and white houses
Looses its hold on the ridge of hills
And floats among cloud tops.
A shaggy donkey, cropping grass in the sequestered church yard,
Walks, with a leisurely air,
Into a wind driven abyss.
TROPICAL WINTER
The afternoon is frozen with memories,
Radiant as ice.
The sun sets amidst the agued trembling of the leaves,
Sinking right down through the gold air
Into the arms of the sea.
The enameled wings of the palm trees
Keep shivering, shivering,
Beating the gold air thin….
TALK ON THE RANCH
It is cold in the circle of mountains,
A fireless hearth.
The stars drift by like autumn leaves.
Only the rustle—
Then, close together,
Our talk,
For and counter,
One grating against the other,
Rubs a little fire
And we warm each other
There in the midst of the hollow clammy circle.