By: Lisa Marie Basile
He left the bleeding Arcachon just as the
Germans came and he rested his head in Figueras and Port LLigat
It was the Stairway of Habanais where my alizarin red gown
shifted against brown stone in the sticky evening light
with my left leg up and foot cautiously balanced
(I may lose my footing if you prove men in Vicenzaare bees to flowers)
I can smell Salvador here, calling us ugly
with his brush. we are ugly flies caught in sap
