Sonnets From The Portuguese Poem by Bernard Henrie

The yellow bulb that covered our desire last night
still burning into the morning, disordered bedclothes,
the low clutter, the clack of the poorly tuned radio
and the scent of Turkish coffee strong enough
to make the lip quiver, to recall the pleasure
exchanged in the half-lit dark.

My Corsican, his mouth dark as July burned to the ground.
My pirate for whom I am naked, except for sandals.

How free I feel walking on top of the feeble Indian Ocean,
my blouse carelessly thrown over the bird cage,
windows thrown open, bread and cheese for breakfast.
The irremediable stillness of a mirror, rustling clouds
painted across the silk sky.

In the seeping light Cassiopeia sotto voce like women
talking among themselves. The first vestige of moon
climbs over head, lives written as poems open and close.
Perfumed souls levitate briefly along the Levantine coast.