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  1. Siesta by Spencer Reece
    Oh people not mine
    what is it we can hear
    the old custodian
    coddles the tin box
    in the empty church
    the ex-monk clips
    his lime tree just so
    my soiled skin flensed
    from my uniform
    Jesus said to them
    oh ye of little faith
    Ayamonte is golden
    the sun rakes over us
    meticulous and slow
    a mutt with cataracts
    licks its parts ticking
    Portugal lies exposed
    on her soft cheap cot
    passive and docile unlike
    that bull that is Spain
    the sea’s lips scold me
    in that Spanish way
    gentle and yet firm
    nothing here is mine

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