At lunch in Porto -
a wood spoon serves
wild rice.
I recall manoomin
from an Ojibwe stand -
broken bits,
memories.
Have you seen
the tall rice ripening
along marsh edges?
Polers and
strikers
work as one
in a rice-filled
boat.
Seeing
manoomin
is a narrative
of sound -
summer
ripening,
a harvest,
a roast.
At
lunch in Porto,
all this
again
found in the sound
of a serving spoon.
cooking
for jazz bands
hungry poets
painters
I haven't cooked in eight years now
how I rid myself
of oven
hob
meat
I stood there eight years ago
on the deck in the harbor
four hours of fresh water
under salmon smoke
above
blue feet
I wake
two sleeps
one spirit
fine?
I pour
sour wine
into the sink
Eating more
what others make
I think
love's in it
slakes this grief
forgotten recipes
mother's crust
father's mush
your love of pumpkin
a sieved
succotash
over there
on the other side -
spilt milk,
no dessert
I wish I'd cry more
red, red, grey
from a dying pigeon.
Cannibals! I hiss,
stomp them away.
the sun
arcade (sans arcadia)
noses at the glass (Bilbao, Paris)
the moon
feral cat
book, book banned (Joyce, Flanner, Seuss)
livraria (bibliophile)
feces feeding weeds (flowering)
available at little or no cost
wander
never
always
sometimes
lost
22,000 Americans read about Portugal
but only
4,000 immigrate
One more (hybrid, invasive) species added
to over 200 here.
For the most part, well-behaved?
Let's just say we're contained,
exotic.
As plants go
we´re few,
mostly gardened in pots
but still
not plastic (sterilised).
I assure you
woven plastic rattan
doesn't hold a candle to sea grass,
hyacinth, or weeds seeded from
dung and birds (invasive).
O relogio,
stay with us,
through the wind up,
the pitch, the throw.
More pots to sow.
Know
acacias, agave, ailanthus
aster, fleabane, galinsoga
ipomaea, opuntis, oxalis
(in February bloom profusion)
pokeweed, knotgrass, cheesewood.
He knows where to go.
Walks past the barking brothers, as a neighbor calms me.
uma casca é pior que uma mordidela, vezes dois.
Down the cobbled alley,
to the
Shih Tzu at the bottom.
Menino ou menina?
Menino. Está dez e quatro anos.
(Ele tem quatorze anos de idade).
Ele é um pouco tímido.
He knows where to go.
I cannot say it
searching for words
as we walk along the river.
Sou um cão sentado para os meus amigos.
Muito sinto.
Tenho um pouco de português.
The breaking glass
as we walk up the hill to home.
A calma o meu amigo.
Nada a temer.
He slyly attempts a detour
following the urine trail
of two unleashed terriers.
Não desta forma!
Eu não sei os cães,
o seu temperamento.
He realises we are going home,
moving a quick clip ahead
instead of slow sniffing.
It's as if he's more bird than dog.
Pombas de tartaruga, pombos,
uma pega
partilham o telhado
de um edifício partido.
He ignores the cat glaring at him
from across the narrow street.
Gato preto nas sombras.
Sorte ou infelicidade?
In the walk's final moments
before the gate
as I turn the key,
he and an old man lock eyes.
Oh sim, eu sei para onde vai, e você sabe o mesmo sobre mim!
Oh yes, I know where you are going, and you know the same about me!