poem (after insisting) to john mateer

this morning in coimbra
you should've seen my street, with all the birds screaming about
nothing, you should have mistrusted me all the way,
while at 8.30 i would hope to see you in a Boss suit even
after all the mutter and discussion

i am sorry (but then
i never ask forgiveness) i lost the words with my cigarretes
the same way
you are sorry
for having none to give

it's such a shame
the sunrise
watching over us being over with
one another and the moon
(did you actually see her?... because i didn't)
wasted as
words you should remember (i am a good secretary, i am):
wat(er) is there
amanhã
delay (or adiar, which is not the same thing)

some other words (none of your business, but still my poem anyway)
as in
film
as in
not here but there
as in
two hours
as in
some biblical ghost

as in
acting our survival-kit ages
with huge eyes
with no words at all
to match.  ¶ 8:35 da manhã