1 New Poem

Spain in Heart

Life becomes binary series:
some welfare office file folder
laid end to end, flung between
hands, hastily shipped, shining
bright in steel city ‘til the
shadows come as half-moons,
stars hand as sticky-tacked together
makings.

Without that same withered spark
to speak, that same unchased dream,
that same unconquered hill with
gunnery’s plume,

without that same reason.

You don’t run
as black,
as red
and all that
khaki-crossed mythos,

all that fooled,
“could have, if only . . .”.

Live with glass splinter
of months as Catalonia,

the next five years as

reactionary bayonets.