what’s not found
at once, but lies
within something of another nature,
in repose, distinct.
Gull feathers of glass, hidden
in white pulp: the bones of squid
which I pull out and lay
blade by blade on the draining board—
tapered as if for swiftness, to pierce
Last night, at dinner, our first in Faro, John quoted these lines from Denise Levertov’s “Pleasures” as he extracted the bones from the delicious squid he’d ordered. And I thought again how lucky I am to be married to a poet.
This morning we explored Faro’s quiet streets, pausing to look at the nesting pelicans (everywhere)
and to watch huge black bees with blue wings in the almond blossoms —
In a little while we’re taking a bus to nearby Milreu where we hope to see the ruins of a grand 1st c. Roman villa with fish mosaics (though there’s some uncertainty about opening times…).
And, oh, the oranges decorate the trees like smalL bright suns.
p.s. Actually, having looked them up, those nesting birds are white storks. Though there are lots of pelicans here too…