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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. |