He’d infuse papaya leaves
for breakfast. Was inspired
by a tiny sloop heading for the ocean end,
an oval of a passion fruit and
naturalmente by his tawny Mia, cello-shaped.
Julio indulged seco Frasquiera -
would lift up his glass as if it held ambrosia.
Ecstatic, he heard black pebbles
on the beach, jostling,
or ancient volcanic rumors, ear to earth.
A maze of little stories inevitably led
to his birth floating orchards.
Death in Eden is a déjà vu and softer:
he fled on a slender wineglass stem
reaching for the unknown sky end, above Madeira.
Over dark-iodine Colheita
now Mia and friends probe the redness of this huge eye
ritually closing beneath the water lid
and carefully ignore as if a light breeze
rustling their own end of Eden time.