A ANDORINHA

Lisbon, 2019

It would be its own poem
If I told you I bought a book
Filled with words
I did not understand
On a street padded like your dog’s paws
Under lights bright with Christmas.

Up down, I’ve wandered
Lost, mostly on purpose
With a clay swallow
Slight, with hints of greens and golds.
A gift
Promising my return.