she wore her emotions
              on her sleeve

           and what beautiful
           sleeves they were

         crumbling beauty up to
           her knees in sand

        "is there no other place
              than this?"

         no my sweet, this is the
          deepest part of the flower

          the Pentecostals say:
          purple is gods color,
          but when they spoke
           to angles, it was
           Arabic, wasn't it?

        the Spanish rooftops
           were red like the
            blood of saints

         and the pigeon coups
          full of yesterdays
              messengers
             and tomorrows
                dinner

     above the Moroccan pharmacies:
           the green Arabic moon
           stares down, green
           with envy of the
              Berber men
               possessing
                 the keys
               to the dark
             eyed women

          oh to be a sultan
       in an andalucian saddle
          led by your grooms
        along side a gipsi queen

        paint my story on her
          hands gipsi mother

       parade my princess and
    sell her kisses to peasants

      she will bow to her king
    forever, her smile unfading
     as this city crumbles anew