deliver me

and sometimes I dream of Spain
crisscrossed wired strings of laundry happenings
like garden awnings, with ivy rich red bricks,
mulled wine shades splashed across pouting skies of grey and gold
clay pot etchings speak shrilly
as we spin through the night, just to get it right-
this sensation
the heat of Eastern summer evenings
the wind whips us into dance
as the tied sheets scramble
and liberation unravels our doubts
that this is less then just right
and the lights are in the trees
with every pressure change
we surround ourselves with saving grace,
the distant sea lullabies
crashing waves of bareboned battles
between pleasures of flesh and spirit
our secrets steam in the wrought iron corners,
pot kettle black
wooden carvings and open doorways laugh, like ancient art

when my tousled spirals turn into faded knots of memory
sometimes my desire to flee is so searing it becomes flesh eating
and i feel the sickness swallowing me feet up
speak to me in Spanish,
release this tightening in the center of my throat
and early in the morning, middle of the night
i wake up damp and feverish near delirious
with train cabin hauntings
remembering the doughy thick pretzels pressed tight between cardboard and foil
the mist settling over the cold dawning fields
savored from the cherry tree
wind farms slow motion moan
when a one man memorial service given from jean-clad knees
soaked to the bone
light with ancestry's ashes
bone after bone bubbling with creation
is enough to broaden the horizons of a hundred forever afters

come with me,
the road to awe.