haze of Spain

the Sierra Nevada sits in a

summer haze.

The earth is a dust whom,

like me, craves rain.


Orange trees disguise dilapidation

while the woman cause salivation;

white Castalo.

Escape the heat by the shade of

roses or the slum of a cave,

here you suck conversation like

water to a cactus.


Red wine plasters but cracks,

tiles are needed in the moist months of Porto, but I am in Spain.

So let me pick my own olives,

I crave sweat of my own accord.


Let us converse with our eyes,

It is too hot to learn English or maybe

you are just lazy and drunk?

I thought I saw Africa today,

but perhaps that was only your haze.

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