American
I believed the Holy Sonnets were maps that I could follow.
She was so far from Lorca it wasn’t worth it.
Her eyes were pentacles that concealed the Twin Towers.
At the Hotel Esmeralda I slept in a four-leaf target.
She had a view of the Notre Dame before the fire.
I read all her books, but I didn’t tell her.
Without her, Gibraltar made me feel less than a dollar.
That Gentle Moment
I was the Messiah then the opposite.
I walked to Michigan without St. Thomas.
My frontal lobe is a holy quadrant.
To grieve is pointless, it’s not that poignant.
Inside my sleeves is a mote of confidence.
The head is a globe, but the heart is a target.
There’s one more thing but I haven’t thought of it.
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