in Spain, purple nailed and yawning,
the big hat of history sadly vacant,
inconspicuously not there, the horses
plodding down Calle Generalife, ghosts
of a culture more and more less and less,
their manes stand up electric and their nostrils
sniffle a soft revolution that arrives with the night.
Here we are listening to foreign tongues
again, taking the world and spinning it
like a glass globe on the table, returning
to the old country on the heels
of a century inverted.
Here we are sitting in a classroom hunting
the trace of the future (as it has already gone
by like the smell of a garbage truck or a fawn
startled by the roar of a pick up on the road).
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