stands at a barred window, a cracked adobe
cameo of myrtle and palm fronds.
I pause, spellbound amid slow-rising dust
from my barefoot trek through a quiet village
to contemplate the new moon,
when the Andalusia sky is lavender and violet,
and the village youths in procession,
a lamentation with lanterns
passing before their Madonna, bathed in the
scent of orange and mint, ants creeping
through her gypsy hair
her brow, a raven's wingspread, the sky deepens,
female peacocks blend with the earth,
a distant row of cypress marking where the road
lies, and from the belfry, storks emerge, to glide
majestically in a slow, widening arc,
their shadows undulate o'er the cheekbone of a
riverbed, the dying sun casts its yield of sangria
through newly plowed fields.
Venus broke the night. She sucked back the stars
and started to shine with her own brightness. Sick
of cold equations and mathematical divisions, all
these diametric fixations, she preyed for a collision;
for the moon to tap into the craters beneath her fingernails.
This, she called The Pruning - the sculpting of Edens
out of satellites and solar winds, wound round her sides.
She's tithed to her own tides, moodswung as a river
cut through her insides. She's happiest when her blood
is flooded with lovers swept into her depths, sunk into
astral sockets and crater lakes. Dreamdrunk on Venus'
sweet venom, bloated with pride, they float with the tide
as it seeps in, and take their place beneath her skin.
Feeding her Edens' deep sleep in their terra of love.
But alone, she sits and counts on fibreglass fingers,
interlocked in herringbone knots, and the loveless
dove tales of each pigeon-toed goddess. Solo,
she splinters no night, just whispers like a morning scar.
Green Rolling Hills,
Terraced for Miles,
-Stealing our Eyes.
Hours on the Rhine River.
Listening to Music
and Each Other,
Until 2 A.M.
-Stealing our Hearts