Even At Super-Market Past Life Slipping Up On Me

It was best that I did not see her face,
her hair spoke in tongues enough.

For to fill the stained glass windows of my eyes
with the vibrations of choral cries
throughout the basilica of my blood.

She filled the gold reserves
of my own conquering Spain,
for a moment.

But I did not cast my galleons to her waves,
nor adhere to her courageous breeze.

Instead, I looked at it all
from outside the space station window.

Remembering home
when it would rain on Sunday afternoons
as the church bells rang
and pigeons would shuffle
and the commerce of the day
would decay
for a moment

and the animal-cracker boxes
melted away in the gutter.

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