what the evening sun did at night the horizon el flavedo, its glare
albedo, its carpels punctured, juice tears from the rind, a Blood-
Orange Sanguinello twilight fissured into specs, sliced into slices.
Streamed. Shimmered. Geodesic spots in the cool granite
promenade etched with theta. We enfolded the nectar over
pot-bellied pitcher sweats on our wrists, dripping into wineglasses
came cava sangria. & those black silhouettes stole us in Spain.
Fourteen human statues linger always in deciduous longing,
upwards & imperceptible. Performing all day time-lapse roles
at normal speed. Crackle of old film, & cicada prattle of immigrants
peddling comic bird-callers. Hablamos concertos, our nimbled
tonsils harmonic as the day’s mirage distortion recesses its heat down
onto our bare feet. Held. Bedded. Untaken body, still awake to be
alivened again in the stretch of Catalan night. Dusk sat down too,
a single buttock in a chair & we, mesmerized. Drunken drank,
having bicycled legs numb to Park Güell that spit the city below.
Sun beat down, up us beaten by the five-kilometer road—
Gaudi’s gurgled mosaic falls. Tidal tongues gentling lapping
at his sand castles. Swallowed. Tracking down through la Rambla,
tributary, out into Mediterranean. She sleeps & fells her salt &
breaths pleasing us pleasing her. We gulp sea. We fuck sea,
in kind solitary watching.
Ruso y Polaco, Francés y Británico y Estadounidenses y chinos
y japoneses sudando. Folding knees, bellies, breasts, flesh
opening shirts not for fashion. Denim sopping. Oxfords hung
like drooped flags dark widening halos on napes & armpits.
Tourists crowd. Bind together in strangeness, leaning south-easterly
over the tiled precipice. Fathers careful with each frame
of their handicam, collection. Less Barcelona pulls up her skirt,
unnoticed. Her eastern flank, el Barri Gotic. El Raval oeste.
La Rambla central. Drop a seed there, in the gutter on the melting
ice that mattressed scallops, mussels, fish-heads, exoskeletal
prawns, & all other aliens of el marcat de la Boqueria. An unbroken
economy camped by Plaça de Catalunya since the year 12-17.
Humidity in our hair, matted into this slip in the timeline.
At day’s end, by the flowers we drank as they were put to rest. We all
drink. We all eat, claro. Unburnt, our shoulders nude in tanktops.
Tunneled in breeze, stony, shaded in the boulevard periscopic
de la Rambla, beneath its colonnade roof of slender platanus
hispanicas trees elongating. Todas de las Rambla’s human statues too,
must smoke, must soak in language murmur, must siesta at Park
Güell Like him—dreaded hair bronze, furrowed cheeks
indented-sculpted as if his dermas lathed, suit dipped golden.
Breeze stilled in the cloth, like a flash photo. Humming full,
cardiac skin. Yet his posture, off-the-clock, meditative with cigarette,
denying character, denying the performed life— an unrelenting
departure. Vibrant as the sand glimmers and clouds underfoot.
Cacti green, unthirsy, uphill behind & Barcelona, swollen before him.
Full with this citrus dry air, tourists mill about with their deposition
of sweat-drained bodies, & then pour down these slopes, down these
stairs, towards vendors ice-creaming tongues numb. Parents
unbottling water into wash cloths wrung into infants’ faces also
sweating. An aluminum-cool diffuses from two performers
coaxing percussive melody from steel Hang drums with their thumbs.
This damp air beneath palms at the east main gate.