Turning away from the sunlight
The lawn is long enough for crossing swords or even dancing,
stones cut from the narrow river bed decorating the edge,
shallow walls piled so high a man can see, see me taking photos,
cutting out odourless portraits for books, fat, dark and well bound,
This one is about the Alcazar in sunlight, Segovia, ninety-three, or
older,
the same sun that only twelve hours from now will be here again
following like some party balloon, surprised to see me there
without an invitation, taking party shots, snipping out famous
faces,
two places at once, turning away and looking over the page.
