CRIAÇÃO / POESIA
The last bus
Mark Strand
It is dark.
A slight rain
dampens the streets.
Nothing moves
in Lota's park.
The palms hang
over the matted grass,
and the voluminous bushes,
bundled in sheets,
billow beside the walks.
The world is out of reach.
The ghosts of bathers rise
slowly out of the surf and turn
high in the spray.
They walk on the beach
and their eyes burn
like stars.
And Rio sleeps:
the sea is a dream
in which it dies and is reborn.
The bus speeds.
A violet cloud
unravels in its wake.
My legs begin to shake.
My lungs fill up with steam.
Sweat covers my face
and falls to my chest.
My neck and shoulders ache.
Not even sure
that I am awake,
I grip the hot
edge of the seat.
The driver smiles.
His pants are rolled above his knees
and his bare calves
gleam in the heat.
A woman tries to comfort me.
She puts her hand under my shirt
and writes the names of flowers
on my back.
Her skirt is black.
She has a tiny skull
and crossbones on each knee.
There is a garden in her eyes
where rows of dull,
white tombstones crowd the air
and people stand,
waving goodbye.
I have the feeling I am there.
She whispers through her teeth
and puts her lips
against my cheek.
The driver turns.
His eyes are closed
and he is combing back his hair.
He tells me to be brave.
I feel my heartbeat
growing fainter as he speaks.
The woman kisses me again.
Her jaw creaks
and her breath clings
to my neck like mist.
I turn to the window's
cracked pane
streaked with rain.
Where have I been?
I look toward Rio
nothing is the same.
The Christ who stood
in a pool of electric light
high on his hill
is out of sight.
And the bay is black.
And the black city
sinks into its grave.
And I shall never come back.
Rio de Janeiro, 1966
Publication Dates
-
Publication in this collection
06 June 2005 -
Date of issue
Aug 1997
