2

I have 44 moments I wish to describe-

the Alps, my sunbathed hillside friend, my manners I have forgotten, I write on the faded parchment which lingers in a wooden vestibule.

Moment the first being the cosmic blanket of my childhood skies:

the fort burgundy where the soldiers had fallen,

the girl whose lips tasted of a candied rose,

I met her in the dark and have not seen her since.

-Portugal are you there within the bursting acre leaves?

She lives on the very same street;

the corner of a thousand horns.

The towers over and away,

kissing the opalescent white,

upon the pincushion streets of Atlantis.