We descend gently
into the deep well
of the pianoforte

As the sun streams down
from above
the echoes of love and longing
arise from below

You and I
have not come this way before

So step gently
and have every care
A world where I lose you
cannot exist

In truth
it would be
an outrage against nature

And if
God forbid
such a thing were to happen
I would wrap the sky
in a blanket of grief
a blanket so dense
that the sun would fail
the stars flicker and dim

I would turn off every light
erase every word

There would be no peace
because I would make war
against every continent
my armies would occupy
every city

I would plant a black flag
on the moon
and place a grieving footprint
upon the Sea of Tranquility

And I would cry
that no tranquility
can henceforth exist
in any place

Finally
I would set out
with scant provision
on an odyssey
that would make Ulysses weep

Few would weigh my grief
yet the earth itself
would careen briefly
off the elliptic
as the weight of my heart
altered its comings and goings
causing every creature still breathing
to look up in fear

So stay, friend.
It must be that I go first.
And you remain behind.

She is the slyest creature
ever whelped by wolf
or woman

A barking beast
small in stature
huge in heart

Face framed by fire
done up in fur
the friendliest constellation
in the night sky
one known to all
Hilda

She is coyote
on a good day
a wolf cub at play
a lover in the morning
noon
and night

A slight and feral hound
with ideas of her own

We found her
in the company of
a wizard.
Oh yes!

And he wove for us
a sweet spell of harmony
well mingled
with domestic peace.

Hilda was the incantation.
And the spell was strong.

The streets
of Oporto
that ancient port city
were a riot of poets
it seemed

When the French fell
against all odds
a local bard intoned

"We were great
we were giants
we were many"

The people of that port shouted
they came together en masse
they danced in their waking dreams
waving their arms
and some probably wept with joy

They sang, by God,
and they partied like that
as only the people
of that port city can

And I'll tell you a secret:
those are the ones I want to know.

Portugal Campeão da Europa!

Have you ever had a bad cherry?
At first, they're succulent.
You feel thrilled, almost salacious.
You burrow for more.
You fill your hands with their gravity.
Red ones, dark one, even better.

Then you find it; it looks like all the rest.
You're ravenous, unable to pull your lips from its surface.
You expect to crunch down on its soft supple skin.
You find the horror within, it's bland, the taste is thin.
But each one before, held a marvel within.
Your heart is riotous; it looked like all the rest.

The anger has me writhing with a tempestuous din.
The sound of heartbreak yelps from inside.
How could it be that one?
How could it be that little thing that seditiously winks without eyes?
A piece of my soul it takes but it doesn't leave by any window.
It dies within, leaving my gut to wash its sin.

Sometimes you are that bad cherry,
That beast that brings mourning.
I sleep with the scar and heal in the morning.
The cherries look too good today to pass up.
But another bad cherry looms in the wake of my deep thirst.
Just as with you, there's always another day.