Contents
Elusive
I trace the horizon
with my index
finger,
it picks up dust from
the window pane;
the line I’ve drawn
is now
clearer
than anything else
beyond the frame.
I go out, take in
the salted air;
the line is now
a half-dome:
I cannot touch it,
but in the wind.
I find a boat,
then I row.
And I row, and
row, and row;
the horizon looks
as far away.
My arms cramp
up. I haven’t
gone far
enough; I catch
my breath
and sleep
slumped,
over the base.
Light takes
the horizon
from my
blinking eyes.
I cannot see
where the sky
ends and sea
starts.
I turn away, row
back; go look
for the line back,
behind the pane,
dust-frosted
it is,
once again.
© Ana Beatriz Ribeiro
