by Tara Borgilt 

So these are the golden cities of Spain--
electric spiders sprawled in the black

Morning ridged like the roof
of a dog´s mouth
carrying the plane down
to a dry plateau

All night Madrid screams
splashing wine in the streets

Shaking loose over cobbles
on a borrowed blue bike
past trucks of grapes
in from the fields

Flying back home I have healed the sky
or torn it open

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