Sunrise by La Sagrada Familia

(A man feeds ducks by the pond in the square. The woman he loves walks by him; she doesn’t know him. He is struck dumb by her presence. These are his thoughts.)
Morning is

Madonna a la plaza.

Her hair is burnt

Pan power.

D’or corps tell me

I love her.

Body of Christ,

Amen.
I feed ducks

by the pond’s lip, conversely

blinding cats with my skin—

and they walk,

walk to the mother

(oh, that she should see me here

looking such a cunt!)

and my block knees pious

as Senora Veracruz on

Sunday.
I’ve my avian coterie, I’ve

the sound of bread on their lips, but to bind

Charon

with musical palms, to gift

Euridice

with the prismic throat of the toucan.

My cheeks are hibiscus, limbs

ibis thin

her mouth bud and eyes as
deferred—am I in love or

a throatless cock, sparse of plumage, de-sexed

and crusted dry?

Solar flagellation

will make move,

but I am one

and drying with her clothes, dying on her drying line.
Brittle-minded, I dream—
Round, peaceable bird, folding

linens in blackness, gold-armed

in Barcelona pre-dawn.

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