Separation
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