An Evening In Portugal

“…Pessoaic, ” he said
and my heart fluttered.


He had paused first, focusing me,
and I had yielded – accustomed to
lingering in his pauses, teetering on
the edge of acute awareness and
feeling the anticipation ripen

within me. When he spoke again,
it was in our language; the image
spinning already in and through
a shared conscious. A poet-in-pieces,
knelt before the open trunk, pulling

pages between them and arguing
intellectual copyright – each insistently
pleading on behalf of their subject,
their emotions, their truth, as the
rain began to fall from the darkening

sky outside. I would gently correct,
redirect – flinging the conversation
onto another path – my eyes lifting
as I did from the paper between us
to the poet before me and in

the sultry air of a dimly lit room
that we never once occupied, against
the backdropp of a lone streetlamp
and too many raindrops to count,
his eyes, and heart, met mine.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 2 votes ) 10

Comments (10)

An extraordinary composition!
nice one christy..quite enjoyable. The Sage Anthony Edmond John
u make it sound so sweet and romantic..beautiful write..outstanding poem! u amazing! !
Wow Love's first bewitching glance nicely captured in your poem.A ten from me.
a romance in verse...what rythmn there is when two people of verse share a romance....ethereal.
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