like old brittle paint
falling in pieces of hooker green
on the bathroom floor.
I am devoid of touch,
hollowing at the center;
and you can hear me echo.
The dust in the old room settles,
like first lips, gingerly on my skin.
It’s like age materializing,
faces reappearing after the fact.
Lorca dreamt me tonight.
He spread my legs
across the streets of Cordoba
and asked me to call his name.
I yelped until I went hoarse,
tickling the letters with my tongue,
rolling them over like a nipple
on toothless gums.