She forgets
what excess means, gorges herself
on sleepless nights and pills from some back-alley dealer,
tunes her bruised guitar and sings of endless light in Barcelona—
where the boys are bold and the women rule the art of flamenco
and paella. It's there, she says, where passion and virtue
are entwined and familiar: a black cat's fur
on a white leather couch.

Sing of the road and watch the stars revolve, she'll always say—
for this night is tattooed upon all our fingertips: green eyes and red earth
a marriage of perfection and fluid hips, of temptation being a shrine
to anoint with fevered lips.

Bring an ocean with you, and know this world
forgets while she tries to sleep.

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