In the early hours the lovebirds
colonized the palm.
We were looking for a totem.
Finding nothing
but the Indian smells,
we booked the next boat to Janeiro.
On the east coast,
where the sun deflects the falcons
from their sea-positions,
we found a blessed frère
with no cathedral
but the daisies in May,
living on milk and wafers,
with the cross in one hand
and the anatomy of sorrow in the other.
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