CUBE
It’s a cube.
A cube made of stone,
muted sounds, flashes;
translucid, unlucid;
things move there,
against the glassy air;
callers colors echos
squared light, static noon.
Bards birds keep it.
The sun kip.*
Incapable of music,
a non dancing boat.
The float of a buoy.
Some children.
A ball.
.
Everything is there
and nothing cares
full of meaningless.
.
The afternoon is deaf.
It’s a cube.
.
The miss of your saliva,
the milk of your pelvis,
the bite in your hair… Just air.
.
Your feet are gods.
Your hands are odes
to an affair against the odds.
.
Your hair is the night; deny it
the moon of blues and silvers,
but in the end it’s the night,
it’s the night there
and its full look
(Medusa)
confused to your look
what prevails.
Your hair is the flight
to the abyss of a miss.
.
Your hair is the night;
a blinded lion's nightmare;
the sea's devour of the shadows.
.
I reach you unreachable;
unreachable I lose your hand.
.
Don't ask me how I feel;
I don’t believe in feelings:
having feelings, nurturing
feelings past and future.
.
I only fill me out now,
at the present time.
.
And sometimes what
fills me up is like being
immersed in a cube.
A cube.
The abyss of your miss
obscuring the bright day.
.
.
Igor Buys
Ilha Grande, 06/10 de março de 2021.
Escrito originalmente em língua inglesa.
.
.
_____________
*According to the British philologist Walter William Skeat (1835 - 1912), "kip" comes from Old English "kippian".