They say the rain in Spain
Falls mainly on the plain,
But in the hills of Bilbao
It falls mainly on us, most foully.
We two trapped in our tents,
Unfree to discover this Basque
City – its peoples, its streets,
Its sun-prized dust. So rent,
Our canvassed air is Eminesque,
Hot with memories and reminiscences.
My mind puns as readily as a
Sub-editor in the Sun’s offices
As I watch twinkling raindrops
Expiring in the mud. Toward me
You crawl, crossing a page where
Francis Bacon sits and stares,
Twin antennae twirling enigmatically
To reach a sense of recognition.
Dali would have us elsewhere:
Dodging bulls in Pamplona
Perhaps, or Seville, or Guernica –
Our bodies and heads reconfigured
By bomb blasts,
But we are here, you and I,
Where we have always been,
Plain as the still falling rain.
I think of Picasso, I think of Goya,
I think of Miro and a question mark
Hovers over my head. Under
My thumb I crack your back
And place you upon my tongue:
A sacrificial sacrament,
A cultural remnant,
A crumb of Espagne.