We are leaving in the morning.

I can feel the press of memory
in the curve of a downward
fold, behind a torn up receipt just
next to the jut of new
roller handles. I feel it

in the coconut drink the park
cafeteria ran out of this afternoon.
The açai you thought I wouldn’t like.
How many unfinished days
are there left scratched into places
tipping over the ends of old maps?

You hand me a snack box (for tomorrow);
tell me to go to bed.
I am afraid Today will spill out
through my yawning–
from my head to the pillow
until there is nothing left, only

our Unfinished set aside for tomorrow
and all the packing we have left to do.

E lá vai ela de novo.
Consegues ver assim tão longe?
Aquela forma pequena e dourada.
Dourada em sua coroa de raios solares.

Ela flui,
Como água em rio,
Como o vento nas campinas por onde passa.

De suas mãos escorrem as cores,
As quentes, as frias
as calmas, as desbotadas.
Todas vivas,
Respirando e vibrando.

Formando o invisível,
Aquilo que parece nascer pela primeira vez diante dos olhos,
Mas que na verdade
Está renascendo,
Pois sua forma já existia,
É só agora que as cores o preenchiam.

White happens to be very bright
White happens to be compound,
Dirt leaves no stains on white,
The sound of cymbals — white sound.

There are many shades of white,
Symbols, foretokens and meanings.
Brides strive after bliss in white
In London, Belgrade and Campinas.

White dove is a symbol of peace.
White flag means cessation of arms.
They grieve in white clothes for deceased
In Tokyo, Shanghai, Sasaram.

Women pick their partners themselves —
These immutable rules of white dance.
There’s no habit to be in the row —
It’s not easy to be a white crow.

A lot of nuances: pearl, opal and ice,
White night and white whisper and usual rice.
Noble ivory, creamy, vanilla and grey.
Unreachable, mystic and far Milky Way.