I have six strings, a knife, and an oyster around my neck.
Raindrops into castanets, the storm demands a volta.
The eisenglass above the galley walls are mired with salt 
as wide as the Algecíras bay.

I wish I could wipe the windows with this food,
because it tastes like the sand off the Atlas Mountains,
gritty, ancient—and all I want is you.
When we were young 18 at school, I met you while I played.

I want a moonlit, howling quarter flanked 
with invincible sunlight, olive groves, good food,
gypsies playing palmas—dancing, screaming—
You would have run off with me,  I’d have done the same.

Raindrops into castanets, the drops go-go-go-go, go-go-go…