Liking a song, now

here in Algeciras it feels good to be – like –

perched on the wrist of the world at night

in a grey hotel. Our balcony’s –

like – held up by the Pillars of Hercules

but below unconcerned with time it’s us

but precarious the couple we – like – sussed

out ages ago still drinking tequila

and talking all night there we are made o’

glass we refract everything we know

through the tint and salt of por qué coño no

sarcasm cuts as cut-lemons cut

not like light slicing a stain-glass heart…

but now, it feels good to be – like –

perched on the wrist of the world at night

in a grey hotel reminded of a time or a song

and tomorrow’s first fingers circling moist upon

the lip-stick-smeared wine-glass rim;

we like a song we used to sing