Lampejos de Saudade

Let pass –
into the pages
of an endless mallow record –

the question of my true feeling,
the real barometer of identity
that comes with the
endorsement of desire.

Let rage
the business of
judges,

the wailers at my death,
the rabbi at the Autumn of man,

who may read me my sum of choices
from all the dusty files within.


I will not suffer to return from that shore
bridled with the full-black of Lethe,

the judges may place a red image
on my tomb.

All I would hope
to know –
in proud hope, or
romantic indulgence –

is whether any evening mirages,
shining pink now in
the highland pagodas
of after-death,

played upon
your observant eyes
with the glimmer
I saw when the corner-light
of Sunday morning cut a chord
through your averted gaze.