Monday, April 18, 2011


Spain is the land of flat red earth.
She points herself at you at dinner after a glass of red wine.
She stinks after love but you can only bathe her with questions.
Ask the darkness, the fur of her brow and wrist, her navel delicately inscribed.
A dream from the land where dreams are written in unholy wine.
With such severity has she parted her hair.
She is afraid of her father.

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