I don’t know
the rule I’m supposed to follow but frankly,
nor do I care. The space turned itself out
when it declared I AM NOT SPAIN. Fire, or
some electric sign, a brothering, like a row
of grown-up sisters, to the sounding thirst
I bade farewell, unnecessary acrobat unloved.

Of the mouth we chose ribbons: wallops painting
Tiburon, rock crystals forming in the mind of
an antler. Just as birds do enter gladly, a private
city will sing anywhere that heights turn cold
in the morning—we argue enough or
not at all. Blame the children, their questions,

all that’s left to fill the light, an old door
doubles like a doorbell sounding, Italian
sub-country phrases subpoenaed to sleep;
O illiterate meadow. If I had stars, had
charged them tonight or if light was a fixture
for tractors, streets might find their mere sound

resistance debatable: look how women
run into the world, the gold lungs of a
window just waiting to be brought inside.
The doorbell now broken, too many lights
on at home there is nobody I’d rather eat
lunch with but that’s not true anymore.

Some women put things into a basket
but this fumble on the bench, it’s not
for me. When I was yours my arms were
longer than yours and grammar was all that
we needed. Now that I’m the theatre
I’m tired, I pretend that I’m not listening,
pretend that I am Spain, and like mountains
let night lights let rivers make the sounds
those interpreters might help us remember.