Madeira

making our way, unhurried
past tumble-down walls leaning
against cork oak trees, and
covered with lampshade poppies,
we stroll from the open-air market
with its baskets of persimmons-

the Moorish sun of late afternoon
burns us both brown, obscuring
the winter of my scars-
our half-nude bodies celebrate
while each toe excavates
treasures from a sandy beach

leaving a path that fades
from the lapping of waves
that lie across our footsteps
in languid foreplay-
distant harbor lights offer
shimmering pearl necklaces

and the promise, as evening falls
to indulge in the warmth
of a shared glass of Madeira,
of random wine-stained kisses,
and the religion of a
star-filled Portuguese night