Fern-scented Frontier
When it’s dark in the park and the night needs a light
I will cross the fern-scented frontier to your door
Who can not hear the sound of nipples squirting milk
Brown breasts, dark centers, and the swirling blood
Of passion deep in the brown crescent eyes, pools
Of pleasure, lovely dances, music falling in where
it is wanted, good food, cool water, blue sky,
with many surging clouds, spreading into violet
when the sun sank.
Mellow are the several blossoms, sheer torn open in delight
Sudden is the bristling flood of pure emotion, when
our memory is a rush gushing to the sea–
The salt surge, our mother,
The long day, our father by the shore
When the wind dies down and
stars, all twinkling, are gusty and bleary-eyed
Over the sheen of the sea.
Thin blouses and jiggling breasts.
Many events, all of the people I see, the
girls I’m attracted to for the moment,
My face becoming brown with the sun–
this is Brazil, and the land that
I will gather as I go.
I do think I can be the critic Wilde praises, whose personality is intensified–who reads and passes through the complete works of art, sheltered from acting in the world, mainly being and becoming. The life of Art–the fine suffusion of form and meaning, rhythm and emotion.
most will say: they don’t want to
talk about it, and they shouldn’t,
just because it’s a different country