Behind the toolshed, among the nettles,and rusting horseshoes, I buried the key.

The white dog watched me, whimpering,as if he disapproved of what I was doing

but when I unearthed a bone and threw ithe bounded away, barking, into the field.

I replaced the spade in the shed, strode offto the blue hammock, and climbed into it.

Swaying from side to side, I began to humthe tune from the first spaghetti Western,

where Clint raises his poncho and shoots,then lights up another cigarillo. Above me

the silver birch with my initials stretchedupward to its far-off father, the moon.

They would never, ever find that key, andin the morning I would head for Lisbon,

where I’d rent a room in hilly Alfama,then translate the entire work of Brecht.

The seagulls are huge there, and musical.The crows spend most time on the ground.


Matthew Sweeney 

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