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Valencia, Spain. And I’m not thinking
about oranges, or the color of it
or even the twelve poems that Frank O’Hara calls
ORANGES. No, I’m not thinking about oranges
but of the ears and tail Palomo Linares was awarded
for slaying the Bull of Death.
It started at the discotheque
with Elaina. Where all seek for thee,
Elaina. And the men on motorbikes in bright
orange shirts. You carry a heavy guillotine.
I watched you cut down six, in toto
plus the hash dealer who talked in titled chapters.
Looking backward and dreaming
forward, you keep me close to the horns.
How many times did the sun hold its red cape
and make a pass, and then another.
I left a poem on your father’s typewriter
called The Orange Sands of San Sebastián
in your house with its lavender windows
basil plants and petal curtains,
where I watch myself ride a bicycle
out of your gigantic, gorgeous mouth
carrying a crate of oranges
as the lace finishes off the fallen bull.
