Teucrium fruticans L.

Shrubby Germander

 

I din't drink enough water.

I've headaches,

an echoing gut,

more,

a fleet of sounds.

Shoals.

Sand bars.

The grounded dream

afloat.

trunks

As burned,

bombed

holes,

these 

boles

hold

two metres of

language,

a bird,

a fish.

 

At four

in the morning

such

trunks,

sunk into earth,

war,

appear

as  

open doors

to another side.

Dark woods!

There is

more in 

these

trees

than

what,

in

sunlight,

could be

imagined.

 

 

preoccupied

 bylines:

main valve

ground wire

spliced,

glued to

p trap

a wago

pedestal 

pressure

kess

water

less electric

on liberation

language of

sun

sublets

early light

to write

 Will we have kestrels, owls?

A gecko's tail 

under the terrace ledge, 

edges along.

electricity and the swallow

It's late April.

I sight a swallow

clearly blue

against a bright sky

and failing sun.

Such relief really,

to see this hungry bird,

chirping and sputtering

far softer sounds than gulls.

 

No one can come for the lights.

It's easy, I'm told, and

emboldened, clamp wires, cover them.

Switching to on, a pop, the singular note of a swallow, divorced from song,

carries along an arc of light.

Frightened, I switch everything off.

Think.

On the internet, I listen, follow as instructed,

check, change.

Oh, my sister says, you didn't know?

No.

Learning as I go.

That electric arc seemed iridescent blue, to grow a tail,

and the sound grew wings too.

After corrections,  

I understand separations,

follow a welcome silence into the kitchen light, 

now functioning, 

and out into dusk.

The swallow I had sighted, 

flying too high,

has stopped to rest on the terrace.

We're eyeing one another when

she suddenly lifts, 

descends 

into the shadows of the trees below.

 

A

blue

aquamarine

under

stratus,

stratocumulus,

eucalyptus, cypress, and pine.

Vines of

wisteria,

morning glory flower.

The rooster's deep in second sleep

as the herring gulls hover.

Car horns

shorn of importance

by the east wind,

which is

more important now,

as is that sea,

those trees,

the clouds.

Little things

bring

happiness.

Fresh laundry dried in the sun and salt wind.

A standing hot shower and washed mane of hair.

There are more -

a spoonful of cured goat cheese, fresh greens,

a good day of writing or drawing.

Little things tended,

small garden plots harvested with love.

The neighbor's cock is crowing.

Nearly eleven,

the sea's haze  still sits upon him and around him.

Does it cloud his judgement

or give him

the simple expressive joy

of invisibility?

I gave my grocery money as a tip to neighbors

who came up on an evening,

stopped leaks, prevented

electrocution.

This is what working people do,

value time

and knowledge.

Keep me safe, I pray, from insularity and privilege.

Guard against the evil of trickery.

 

 

Fog expands

to

white at the rail.

Beyond?

miss you

here

love

I'm without rest .

The new refrigerator is as battered as I am.

The plumbing limps along

spilling through my neighbor's ceiling or onto my floor.

More importantly

a lie just will not quit giving away

pieces of itself,

such as

badly injured tiles

or

a deep sewage hole full of debri.

You can see the roach eggs

under the knawed chipwood sink,

hear 200 euro doors slammed

as your neighbors

behind much cheaper portals

find leaks and sorrow.

 

Next, he gallantly said, 

I'll  take a stand,

demand to speak with  

o senhor seguros instead.

depois

 depois de
a mulher idosa que vivia num ninho
caiu ao chão há cerca de dois anos
durante a primeira vaga
antes da guerra
ou poderia dizer
então
o seu mundo acabou.

after
the old woman living in a nest
fell to the ground about two years ago
during the first wave
before the war
or you could say
then
her world ended.

sea

 that horizon

slipping in and out about 5 kilometres

from here

under

cloud kinds

altocumuli

stratus

or straight lined ghost trails

has now settled

become a muffling haze

skinning trees

as the wind's rise

calls 

eye's attention

to

vision songs

along a

glinting trail to the sea

Morcega/ Bat

 She's night 

so clearly lamplit