Comments about Caio Meira
But Emily Dickinson
seated between bees and thought, she dreams the light leaning in the roofs and windows, wandering by green-trees, yellow-golds, the postcards spreading in her lap the edges and emanations in the hours where she wonders,
I think her hand without rings, her silk nightgowns, her inks, all the oceans she didn’t see, the parties she didn’t go, her massive and entire silence frightening the neighbors, her sonorous reclusion between books,
when she goes to bed, when she wakes up for no reason in the middle of the night, when she eats biscuits with milk, her phrases didn’t drink ...