speaking as if I am bent / theseare the knuckles of late augustbullying what is left of softenedgrains in their nascent, on earth  an Iberian fen is my focus I make too much room for firewhere my ancestors spared life a peninsula saving the sea, the years are borne of draughtand sun / in knots, carryingmyself into the past through my own cheek, squeezed intopalmfuls of warm black fruitto build ...