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Askold Salsky
Memo en la mañana

She calls in morning limelight
as I hurry out with trinkums
for another day, my systole up
in the narrow shoes of my blood,
self-referentially trussed in a blue shirt
with a necktie in grave red and slits
like dark banderoles: Hola, mi amor
her bare voice, a rich gravy of shadows
breathing through the wire, spinning me
through a slot of calms. I whisper, Gladicita,
have you called to tell me of last night?

up from sleep at 3 or 4 and unawake
till every dawn’s meridian, remembering
a moon of spectacle and ah! glorious
with happy unrestraint. Mi vida, I say,
pacing and pacing across stars,
hand on the phone and her name lit up
for a spilt second on the tiny screen.