she took from her head a golden hair

it is threaded on the dress i'm about to bear.


day one

the building is cold.
emptied with white.
to grow up in Lisbon (the journeys there).
having their gestures reflected in the mirrors through my acts.
parting from that; to go back intuitively.
indentations within, and others more visible onto the skin.
objects that become my property.
arms supporting the body against an open window – a photograph taken.
the scratched paint on the wall and the overused pavement
joining together as a corner,
faking a single line in an image.


day two

the inside of a fruit.
the segments.
the noise of a dress being made – the cotton flowers quickly moving across the table
the mutual expectancy of seeing the form change,
(a construction of many things between us),
a shared gaze, like a secret.
today the same space is smaller and emptier of the people that slept there.
the walls divide different things, more strictly, by other individual languages.
still images keep the existence of a landscape.
re-collections.
re-creations of memories. as they feel.


day three

the detail of an indentation,
the sign of any kind of happening,
any kind at all.
the few lines, part of a story (the only fragment ever told), are enough.
from that,
launched into any kind of happening,
any kind at all.
“Good morning, Mr Rabbit! What are you doing here, good old friend?
What about you Partridge? What brings you here? – asks the rabbit.”
satisfaction.


day four




day five

the building was high.
a bird was recovering from an injured wing in the balcony.
it took a few days.
after that it would come back sometimes. then it stopped coming.
they prepared a small bed and food.
at the same time life would go on as usual,
the sound of the door, the floor being cleaned,
the onions frying along with the constant smell of coffee.
then it was a big dog, recovering also.
a dogs leg partly covered in blood, much of the flesh exposed.
it stayed in the kitchen between the oven and the cabinet that divided the room,
quiet,
in pain.
ointments, some home made,
it took weeks.
the onions frying ready for the chicken cut in small parts.
the sound of dried bay leaves in a bag. tomatoes and salt. the floor being cleaned.
the dog resting. happy.
it recovered and went away,
coming back very often.


day six

holding the breath unintentionally,
the cold water surrounded the skin arresting the body for a few minutes.
after that, the temperature becomes bearable.
only me inside the water.
all of them (don’t remember how many),
all women, by the side of the river.
the time is soft and slow enough
to lay the fingers in between the seconds,
gliding just above us,
like the warm wind.
the smell of pine nut shells being crushed between a small stone and a rock.
a little radio.
the highest of mountains.
the skin of the feet being pierced by the things on the soil.
a little pain is expected,
no need to notice – the feet still bare.
the smell of water and earth together.
something passes on amongst us like a sound that can not be heard.
no need to notice.