I’ve never been to the Azores but they beckon me.

Small, gracious, resplendent, Atlantic archipelago,

fiercely independent, tiny islands of breath-taking

hydrangea-bordering, green meadow, mountain

lacunae, cloud-filled, like hookah puffs adrift, I

breathe your lyrical language in my sleep, ever

since your letter, 38 years ago, when you wrote

“I’m in the Azores, now, telecommunications unit.

 

Driving the Aston Martin through the Alps would

have to wait until the next furlough, which never

did come. You disappeared–for 35 years–with the

words, “the Azores,” embedded in my loneliness,

a magical place that holds your shadow, my dreams

and our youth, captive on volcanic Terceira, in-

caved in Gruta do natal, where dark secrets glow.

Lembro-me dos açores que nunca vi.