It is easy to write about
Spain in this 4th floor apartment
on the hip of Houston, Texas.
I can tell you about the
stone fountains that bloom
Along Las Ramblas
And how the blue of the
Mediterranean gets in your eyes
like soap or lemon juice.
I can tell you how the underground
wine tasting just off the beaten path
is sipped and spit in the company of three
cubist women exploding in color.
It is easy to write about a place I have
been as I sit so far away because
the length and the width of it have not changed.
The taste and trouble of it have not changed.
So when I write of you,
do not blush. I am writing
of a you that left long ago.
Gather roses at the graveside as you
hear references to her sandy hair
or her glass blown voice.
But do not indulge to think
that these are love letters.
Consider them elegies, and I,
just a clock-necked minister
paying my last respects.