Gracias for your beggars, ubiquitous as fear.
The atonement of hand-washed tiles in the Metro.
For tomatoes, scarlet with passion.
Pocket-size dogs bred from a pinpoint of invisibility.
For plazas of victory and defeat
repeated in your bourgeois streets.
For spare and quiffed shrieks of
Modernity in the spaces set aside.
For nightlife, candle-light, sangria, Juan Gris
and the endearing umbra of the strawberry tree.
Gracias; I won’t return
to taste the smile of someone new
glimpsed in the final kiss you blew.
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