Portugal, 2024
From the height of a miradouro
I watch Lisbon ache.
The day-moon bursts her half, partial
even when full. You are somewhere else
moving in new signatures.
On the audio tour of a Moorish castle
a room full of past wonders out at me.
I have tried to take it slow,
but the nights are short
and wild persimmons infuse the air.
Still there is pleasure passing from room
to room, unseen. A verb like grieve
follows close, faces all directions.
Stones, a record of their wear,
redouble the city’s heat
six hundred years smooth.
Wilting in high noon
I pick the flowers growing beneath tram lines
to press between pages of Pessoa.
I wrote you a letter;
there is a chance it’ll arrive
before I do
there is a chance
it changes nothing.
But not everything survives
because it’s meant to.
Though hope makes ribbons
of ...