after a photograph never almost taken
in Málaga, and a Valencia Robin poem
Young, awake-too-late light. Wall shadows
creaturing. A flame. Cloying
of dead turróns. The absinthe
draining to my stomach.
Everything comes from a poem you will never find
unless you already know it. A Late Night
Science that I was taking
to your door, passing cigarette
wielders, shuttered
birds, itinerant friends.
Arrival, large iron gate, locked for long,
suffering feet from Paris. I would write
who I am on the bag except I am almost
never being, or else I wouldn’t be
turning. Back to the room, the distant bed
I embrace. If I wake up, I will be
flame, wisps of my father. Or I am
fooling myself and the stars
are black against your skin.
