Three Poems

1 Branca’s Vineyard
(At Terceira in the Azores)

The sleeping passion of volcanic stone
On the shore of Biscoïtos senses
In its deep dream the agony of whales
Hunted through these waters. In Branca’s Vineyard
The grapes are drowsy, sheltered in heat
Emanating from volcano soil.
I drink wine the painter of the sacred
And doctor of the heart pressed into being,
Then, for a moment, lingering alone,
Wine glass in hand, pen upon this paper,
Inhale an ancient oneness which I’d thought
Lost for all time, except when I make love
With the woman who has just spoken to me
And broken the spell, as spells are always broken.
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