I thought you were Midas’s son, how you could gild my days with your presence, your touch. Your breath as you slept filled the room with a golden...
Beneath the post-card sized lives, ‘Autor desconegut’. Coarse shirts and pinafores camouflage men and women by the rubble of the polling booth. Untaught smiles for the camera,
In winter months, weather maps surrender muffled shores, tears roll down clouds that pout, like grey, soggy handkerchiefs wrung out, flamenco footsteps hammer on the roof;
A jewel-laden snake encircles her golden throat, bangles grasp her arm like an eagle’s claw, heavy-lids, parted lips, she inhales victory, caresses the head she holds beneath her bare breast,