jardim de camões
— john mateer
A small Oriental mountain disguised as a park populated
by ancients playing cards or perched immobile on rocks, vests
rolled up over their pork-bellies, their wives stretching
for Tai-chi, and I, Camões, having visited your statue’s nook,
there under a false dolmen, am also one-eyed and loitering,
greedily listening to intimations of a DREAM MARKET,
to those mutterings behind the great wall of the invisible.
The Seen is the debt I collect.
I, too, am a Trustee of the Dead and the Absent.