Used to be madness was considered a stone, you say, studying that Hieronymus Bosch painting at the Prado. When we reach the hotel again, you will look it up on artnet, consider buying it, because you are the sort of person who still invests, in things that (you) appreciate. Used to be madness was when you couldn’t tell where you end/and I begin. When did we make (up) our/minds to/break from this asylum? Were we not committed? Madrid: aflame in Spanish summer. Outside: hot stones, people dining al/fresco(s) splashed across the walls of this claustrophobic city. Retiro Park: properly pretentious everywhere coats of arms, insignia, regalia, red seals like the one they’ll emboss on our official spl|t/apart – but that is later
today
we have not thought to speak the word yet divorce stillbreathes between us, bestial baby in our bed. Wander hand-in-hand into this past with me, perhaps we won’t get hit by what we didn’t see… coming. We were beautiful/together, now watch us fall/cleaving children brandishing sticks in our hands marking circles in the sands. In the bar across the lobby, you slide (in) beside me restless legs all/hallows apples rallying in a sea of separation. Listen, you begin, your voice a tautstrung pitch. I can feel the conversation about to pitch, reach for the table, steady now with/draw these lines around ourselves and all we used to be, so – dime mi amor: is it over? is it ours? the tired thing that yawns, that begs: come, no/closer, love, my madness/stone, stone/hearted lover.
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