The city is ripe
with broad-
shouldered
lights
and they carry me
like treading water,
as they spread.
They blow
on my face
and I flicker,
watching them
sew
the night
into the waves’ hum
and half written
poems,
on the heights
above Lisbon.
______________
Photo: Doreen Dee
the jolies fleurs ~ POEM(e)S 