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This poem is taken from PN Review 206, Volume 38 Number 6, July - August 2012.

On the Tip of My Tongue (translated by Chris Miller)
Translated from the Portuguese
Érico Nogueira
1.
It's always the same: punch your card at the exit,
'Ufa - at last...' and 'No more to-bloody-day':
'Step on it', you think, though your mind is still
Bubbling with Eve-tease and worse things yet;
Down the road, it gets beautiful; yo! The sunset,
The meadow is a promise but a purgatory too,
That same old uneasiness sweats over everything
Recalcitrant especially to anything with wit;
The skinnamalink voice of the rebec (not
Rebecca!) jangles up the rhythm with its
See-saw bow. Drum! A punch to the schnozzle,
Another! Doh, damn jasmine-scented night!
A wind gets up, almost home, now here's a wood
(Was that always there?) - and it's calling your name,
Your true, your secret name, not the one on your tag;
Up top the moon, well, illuminates - not much,
...


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