i look back on the pictures, on kates film now developed, and it’s like i’ve boarded the plane again.stretched out on a bouldered beach all our own. grilled squid, bread and bitter olives. a string of experiences hung between camera clicks.
we are home a month now, but the mountains of mallorca still rise to the north and fall into the sea, and through her eyes i’m there now. 

i watch the pot boil


 i watch the pot boil, 
 hope to see you there,
      in closed swirl,
     the mirage lifts
you to me,

     as it does
      i watch or not;

                                                                                  today i watch. 



Green Heron

Four stones throw from home
  was water
     and massacre; both
       in miniature.
Aged green
  with egg-crack wings
    of black and sky
      did still on wet legs
in traffic orange
  as five o’clock burned by;
     as eddies tired by.
In corked recoil, 
  her neck did dart
     again,     again
       beaked below
crumpled surface where
  weekling sunfish died
     then or within her
       hidden breast
before cry and rise over
  soft refuse to stone,
     to the next. 

All this four stones throw from home
   where I rush to google her,
        the naming sweet as fish.