As we dine alfresco, overlooking a cemetery, (Most of the dead roasting over hellfire) My thoughts run from this street Of ramshackle houses, their boards leeched

Of color, porches dusty and upswept, Weeds growing in the sidewalks split Wide open, all the heartbreakingly beautiful Flowers in the late evening sun

And our talk on the ideas of self (eating tasty salmon) & unconscious (wanting to run up rivers like a salmon) & private property (I have lost my heart) & the common law (birth ends in death)

To the City of Frogs (in Mexico) To the Alley of Kiss (in this city) To the green balcony (Lorca dreams there) And kiss, repeatedly, the Beloved Air, which keeps us alive!