A Poet of Medieval Spain
The caliph gone. The moon
unrisen in the garden.
In the tall grass, a gazelle.
This isn’t a young love.
I know you
and I don’t.
I’m pouring
a second cup of wine.
Almonds. Figs. The slow
highway I trace
in the valley of your spine
and beyond: we are
not required to
complete the design —
we have no permission to refrain.
A breeze from the coast,
ripened on oranges,
scatters a flock of swallows
with one hand,
a spray of terns with the other.
Wind that speeds the journey,
wind that splinters masts,
I fear what comes next.
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SELECTED FOR
May 23, 2011 Verse Daily
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