Portuguese Snapshots

Red roofs falling cliff high
into foaming waves

old man watches sheep
who don't seem to mind
wondering where atlantico
turns into the inland sea

the signs say no tractors
or this way to ferries

brick stoves & clay ovens
widely shown
the man with the donkey wanders by

she's happiest when moving fast
and straight
or eating small tasty thing with sauces

"you are saying these strange things to me but i don't know why"

concrete poles
houses thick and white
red clay courtyards
wrapped in blue tiles
guarded by saints with forgotten names
protecting palms and blue fired tiles
melted bold yellow walls
churraqueira in empty yards
wood cut even, stacked in jumbles

posters of singers and toros
workmen piling into tipico
early lunch, dried cod
chicken blood, sardines,

waving she doesn't watch
crossing shady lane with tiny cars
the dog with the shortest legs.

adieu Karol in color
Cerverjai dark, vino blanco
she opens it cold & hands it
sits down.
obrigato

The swarthy one points us
Saint Virgilio of Figuero de Foz
who we call Jack for Joaquin
Patron of wanderers, spicy clams and cold sangria
eyes like grutas of secrets
grottos holding reflection of monoliths
and winters lasting into spring

If i recall from the haze of the sangria night
Virgillio of the soulful eyes,
the fatima awaits
maybe we'll see it past the horizon clambered up the gates of treachery

like the nice boy told us
sue the Sud towards the 15th of April
i'm not sure they might be trees for figs or nuts
squat on fuzzy gnarled hills

I'm not really sure
just keep the ocean ot the right
i'll watch for antelope or impalas
past the grutas with the piney amnesia smell