One response

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

   Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Enter your comment here...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

Email (required) (Address never made public)

Name (required)

Website

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out /  Change )

You are commenting using your Google account. ( Log Out /  Change )

You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out /  Change )

You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out /  Change )

Cancel

Connecting to %s

Notify me of new comments via email.

Notify me of new posts via email.