Fuseta market: old man selling clams
Shovels them nimbly in a plastic sack,
Winkling out stragglers like a pianist seeking notes.
Fish reign on marble slabs;
Dogs hang around and are not cursed,
Tangling with legs and shopping bags.
The blind man in the entrance stares through time and space:
His eyes have lost their memory, but found maybe
A solace that empties to an ocean with each glance,
Startling the tourists and the clouds.
Outside, the Atlantic waits behind the dunes;
A street of stalls festooned with junk
Loses its way among the fishing boats.
Wondering why I came and whether you’ll be back,
I dodge the blind man’s gaze and wander off
To search for love, among the bric-à-brac.
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