• Toto

Yellow Dialogue

Movement and light of a sweating sort burn

below the under peel of a mango.

Fruit scars an umber sweet, heals a smoked sienna.

The canvas dances on slippery oils.

Dances itself unmoving.

Its limbs evade

our knowing.

An arched back petrified in melting ochre.

Colours the body of letters.

Shapes fainting, thinning musical bricks.

I hear the hue of Cante Chico – A little song in desiccated

blacks and indigos. I drink the swaying of souls. Thirst.

A cup of blurring. A sultan’s defeat. Moorish land.

Tress of incorrect rooting. The veiled women watch

the flurry of flames.

No one stops

speaking unless understood.

Here the tongue

is a silhouette of dusk limbs.


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