sleeping in portugal


we rest our eyes
from the squint –
constant sun
on whitewashed walls –
calves from perpetual uphill,
minds slack after days
grasping after language

red wine locks our bodies
to the bed, only dreams move –
flying back and forth
with strands of home

deep into night we wake together,
laughing at the bray
of the nearest donkey,
then sleep until roosters
begin to rev the day