Sublime

somos un pueblo de fuegos de paja, ardemos mucho, pero nos quemamos deprisa...

Before they joined the motorway she took out the poems. In the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love. ‘They never found his grave,’ she said. See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in photographs and lilies. She would have preferred Granada. She would have liked to find the mountain road near

implacable,