Wednesday, September 25, 2013


                       En la luna negra 
                      de los bandoleros, 
                      cantan las espuelas....
                      (Federico García Lorca)

The guitar awaiting midnight

the missing tea set

flesh fed to fat fish
in South Atlantic nets

the looking glass

the rabbit hole

Alma  Venus rising from the sea.

What you breathe every yesterday
is the other side of matter.

At some point transpires the completely uncivilized sentence
streaming up like bubbles from the sunken Islets of the Blessed.

(E. A. Costa 25 September 2013)

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