a poem for a rainy afternoon

If I close my eyes, I'm not here anymore;
I will listen to the sound of the rain
falling in New York
while Red Garland plays a song
on a piano in Paris
or feel the warmth of a fireplace
in a hut somewhere in the mountains of
Montreaux.
If I close them tight and focus hard,
I will hear the sounds of the plains of
Africa
and the innocence of animals
existing,
or perhaps the gentle flipping
of the pages of Baltasar and Blimunda's
love.
And I will smell the coffee brewing
in a kitchen on a Sunday afternoon
in London town
while I dream of tea in Japan
and of bathing in some hot springs
under a starry night in California.
I will then take a deep breath,
eyes wide shut,
and see the sun setting over the orange rooftops
of Lisbon,
taste the salty waters of the Mediterranean,
and touch an olive tree in Jerusalem.
I will close my eyes and if I close them tight enough
I will see the world,
I will go on a rich man's travelling
around the globe,
I will focus so hard,
my baby will lull me into sleep
while he's so, so far away.

Sumo Pontífice

à Sharon Olds

Sumo Pontífice

A fé ejaculada
e coberta de saias
esconde uma crença ereta,
posta sobre a inocência
do Menino Jesus
e de Maria
e talvez do José.

À noite, o decano levanta
as mãos e baixa-as, repetindo a oração
quantas vezes forem necessárias
para que a fé brote e atinja um clímax,
surtindo efeito o prévio ágape da carne.

E torrente, de um branco espesso
e odor exorbitante,
brota-lhe da alavanca da máquina do dogma,
como se fosse fonte solitária,
o maravilhoso sumo pontífice.