Bored as St. Sebastian with all those barbs,
a reluctant teenage boy drug by his father
and duties of the holidays. Like Mars.
Good thing I’m not there to not go, his brother
texted from the states, but now no bars.
Europe’s only desert? No gracias: he’d rather
the blood and sequins of the toros’ eros.
No shade from either side of the thoroughfare
right now, high noon, this blinding glare
the reason for broad-brimmed hats, boleros,
and a street oriented South South December.
All this dreamlight nothing to remember.
The red sand underfoot puffs fine as flour.
He leans his back against and rests his arms
on the crossbar of the hitching post an hour
in an anti-ecstasy of false alarms.
Even he knows the prancing Andalusian,
its neck reined back like a tower of blood,
is no cutting horse, the art of the rider less illusion
than the fronts of the one street neighborhood.
A cowboy from the rooftop bellows poppycock:
Choose between bread or a dead dog! A gunshot.
The only cloud in the sky is this odd cloud
like a bleached human femur floating on end.
From a roof falls a man in love with dust.
Then oblivion of a horse bolting away. Disgust,
the boy aloud: Is it over? How far to the bus?
If you’re walking, a pretty girl behind him, I bet
as long as it takes to smoke a cigarette.
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