We went to a Spanish dance club and / the guitars sounded like rubber / stretching us until we thought it was normal / to become one / and we’d wrap and wrap ourselves in each other / until the Flamenco was gone and you were a bird / and I was a punch-drunk trout / you’d got in your beak; / we speak until the bar clears out / while the castanets click like clamshells, / keeping beats on cold winter nights when / New York’s right outside and in here, / it’s Spain, and we’re an ocean apart from the world / like explorers without an aim, / finding jewels in one another, / squeezing each other’s hearts like sponges / until all we’re left with is fool’s gold; / it crumbles in our hands, / we find out the lands have already been explored, / and we don’t want the riches anymore / because like that organ in our ribcage they’ve been scoured / and diluted with water and softer minerals, / until it’s just a silt that crumbles into our bloodstream / and it’s not worth anything, / not valuable, / just malleable; the weak, gutted innards / of a punch-drunk trout / while you dance Flamenco, / a gypsy princess without a caravan, / the Spanish guitar always in your wildfire soul.

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