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
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.