Salamanca –

"We are going to drown and it's going to be nice."

-- sleeping Man --

dreaming there in the vast Cathedral we Supposed

that beneath these lime trees we

knew more than could be accounted for at first glance, Our

limbs Aching from the long Hike up the Hill --

wandering Children lost in the City's burning furnace

quiet themselves with supple Tears

and hope; We strand

ourselves, There, where the Nyads bathe; we

object to any notion of our being adrift

in hollow bodies; the high-spade

will always Win; but we who Stack the deck

have balm for our Wounds, weary in the

strict Imagination of the Street; Fellows

of a brotherhood long felt in our Veins arise

with Laughter and defer

to some liturgy of Sense; our Ancients

surge in Us to unveil

indentured Sacrifice under red skies

with the spiking

of Crows at the Cross; We

grow, here, to

reveal our Sacred flowering of Youth

unencumbered by restraint, now

Calling

through the fields with a

knowledge

All our Own --

*