My Land


I come from billowing light of foam
which falls on the harbor as woolly waves.

When the moon leans against
the last Church’s mullioned white claw,
novice in seclusion of austere rocks.

I come from the afternoon of bells,
from the gates behind which the straw sleeps.

I can love you with the waves’ rush
and the faithfulness of the door closed,
just when you are in.

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