The Spanish like to write me wildly abstract maps

on bits of paper and napkins

Just as well as I couldn’t find my way through the

Sevillians with faces hardened in the city

still with the soft frilled traditions of the past.

I miss the vacant looks of the Southerly towns

And here the streets gush names of poesy -

‘Amador de los Rios’ as we trickle through.

Our sad moments come when least expected

You can tell a British laugh apart from the rest

Get away from my side, because you will cause me death

‘We must all eat together because if one of us dies we all die together’,

He said.

Tonight I hate everyone but sherry and flamenco call like knives

And I love the smell of his tears

And I want to climb into the creases of his face when he smiles

Because I’m so relieved it’s him.

Is that the sound of the Guadalquivir,

Or the blood rushing to my head?

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