Under
the moon, all of Cordoba
sleeps
as my lover spins suspended from the air itself
in white linen above the fountain,
glistening from the spray.
No one may see this except this dreamer,
and I dare not say a word of it —
I can hear her singing
as the scents
of cinnamon and cardamom
float past me.
I shall not speak of this, ever,
even to her. But I shall carry
this, her fragrance and the silk shine
of her above me, not goddess
but such a human, more real tonight than I,
until I close my eyes for the last time
under another Cordoban moon
that will surely rise on another night of yearning
when I am old, tired of waking life yet glad of my memory.
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Dark Matter 
February 2nd, 2010 at 2:46 am
Dear Tony,
I love you very much.
February 2nd, 2010 at 2:59 am
Thank you. I figured if I wrote a poem about writing a poem inspired by the imaginary conjunction of Pink and the love poems of Arab Andalusia, I’d better write the damn poem…otherwise, someone would start whining about meta-poetry again, and I might have to hurt them…