Coffee: the tightening at the heart,
The wreath of ice, like thorns
Arranged there to give pleasure,

In Jaime’s picture of the world, a heart
As big as South America shines out,
The center of the only ocean. Three
Stick figures (one is labeled “me”) are drawn
Beside the world, as if such suffering
Could make us more objective. Jaime’s bald

I know this really isn’t Spain. But still,
You’d think I’d find my father here, his lips
On every cup. You’d think the holly bush
Weren’t quite so sharp. I think Rumanian
Is coming from my favorite table in
The back. Are all these people reading Lorca?

Listen to the window be
Cause you can see through it

Passing through, / passing through the sea’s afternoons

The ancient customs of a gracious people

Orange suns chain across the sky

I know this really isn’t Spain. But still,
You’d think I’d find my father here, his lips
On every cup. You’d think the holly bush

Silences of darkness are / Windows into water

Damned fool to make a hash of it like that.
Is this what comes from wanting to make art
out of the Middle East's sunbaked back streets?