Register Saturday | July 12 | 2025

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 ...

Subscription Required!

Already have a subscription? Try logging in.