Dipping our bread in oil tins

we talked of morning peeling

open our rooms to a moment

of almonds, olives and wind

when we did not yet know what we were.

The days in Mallorca were alike:

footprints down goat-paths

from the beds we had left,

at night the stars locked to darkness.

At that time we were learning

to dance, take our clothes

in our fingers and open

ourselves to their hands.

The veranera was with us.

For a month the almond trees bloomed,

their droppings the delicate silks

we removed when each time a touch

took us closer to the window where

we whispered yes, there on the intricate

balconies of breath, overlooking

the rest of our lives.