sonorous screech
of cicadas
a thin tune
beating wings of dragonflies
a composition
in itself
honey crunch of leaves
gravel
and dusted sighs
it all comes to a close around ten o’ clock
swimming darkness of slept suburbia
dissipating dreams that always seem to escape
into the starless ether of wooden clouds
ghosts hung to dry sheets in cool wind
Madrid, I call you my lover in these nights,
through the tilted glimpse of motor blurs
from the two-story and basements
nestled melancholic deep within
the tattered skin that I so wear
and the eyes that peel right through it