Cafe Lameiros
The four sit at the table,
outside the cafe,
the women perched on the knees of their men,
underwear showing neon through tight pants,
hair loose and dark against their skin.
There is a symmetry to it,
the way the shoulders slump down to the table,
work-worn hands,
brown with sun,
resting,
on the lower backs of their women.
There is such splendor,
in the four,
at the table,
with their laughter,
the goodness of touch unabashed.
They are the truth,
as they sit in the shade,
the hills around them green and dotted with ruins,
the skeleton cork trees,
the living drinking coffee and the dead stacked in their graves,
a child giving fresh dirt,
to the worms of her mother,
And here are these women,
perched on the knees of their men,
beautiful,
belonging to the countryside,
belonging to the dead and to their children,
and the four at the table,
they look like modern art,
painted by someone,
who changed everything.
The Good Fight
I fear the quiet sky,
untouched by earthly shadow,
unborn to dark,
knowing only its impersonal strength which cannot harm nor take but still,
is heavy in its hollowness,
with no patience,
and no need for wait,
and I the singular warrior,
against its sovereignty,
longing for the certainty of brick and tight-cut planks,
more ruly than these blue ghosts,
than light.
This,
my greatest adversary,
the highest vault,
the silence,
which does not care for war,
nor weep,
for casualties.
Watch the Water
I cannot be deity,
for if I were,
I would take a sharp knife of smoke to every belly,
remove some unnecessary pocket,
and flay and flay,
to strips one cell thick,
lay that lightness across the hands of the living,
so that it is known.
then with clean hands I would sit and watch the water,
oh leap!
oh each set of three, all dancing,
every depth and peak like children,
growing as they grow,
moving like new-birthed beatles on migration,
earth is the canyon,
which is chiseled and memorized by the wind and by the river.
The plan is still.
The finished is nothing.