In the night I have been stung
Thus I am woken, not only by love
But also by the resonant throb
Of the mosquito’s poison
Now it is the minutiae that attracts me
As if F Scott Fitzgerald’s own despair
Was a fundamental part of this occupation
Founded on ants, this place named Algarve
Is throng with their movement
Only the water, of which there is ample
Only the water diverts their passage
This poem is from the collection
