Thiago Ponce de Moraes - HANDWRITING

You do not imagine any language –
And morning breaks like a wound against your lips.
Your mouth opens, just one word bleeds
While the day passes.

Sepal: in the house of forgetting you run aground.
Leaves of paper on the floor and shadows of the trees’ leaves
Where the path overflows. The night
needs no stars.

Your leaves score the sand,
One word is still a-
Light:
Nothing is lost.