I promised no more poems of that night at the Alhambra,
holding hands beneath the moon Lorca once adored,
for to dwell on love’s sleight of hand is to risk breaking
its spell. It was decades ago, in gentler times,
as the past is always more gentle, tender even, like a knot
in your back you can’t massage, so you lay on a baseball,
re-position until the seams touch your pain and you think
This is what