I waxed on about expressional economy. 

You wanting to learn portuguese while 

we’re entwined lakeside, talking through time: 

stressed and syllabic.

 

English is curt. Each word. Onward. 

It’s rigid like a pair of concrete birds 

(Iambic Pentameter). 

Shakespeare writes skull. 

​

Portuguese strums, sliding open 

billowing sounds, humming rounding 

vowels languishing, lilting: 

I sing to you ca-vei-ra. 

​

Translators meet this dilemma: 

how to mean less when you’re saying more, 

to betray your own music for 

music. 

​

That sweet sorr-ow you’ve parted 

is my tri-ste-za tão do-çe 

and as the words spill out of me 

time accents your leaving

 

end-stopped. 

Here the revelation: 

that writhing 

dissonance stems

 

from my having said more 

to you, my having meant less. 

My tra-ge-di-a lasts 

a beat longer than yours.