The Iberian Lynx

We make another home at the edgeof a city of broken stucco laments,olives, and orange tree devotion.Mornings, little men in leather jacketslike black fire hydrants compacttheir disillusionments on each corner whilethe smallest white dump truckin the world whines through our streetswith its sunflower of oblivion.Nights, we shut shutters tightagainst the city light.Tonight we arewithin and between a tent of bookson each bedside table beside a riverof sleep rolling away and breaking upinto small pellets like mercuryfallen from a broken thermometer.We think we hear something stir,but it is only the wind in a windless city,rare, of strange value, in need of saving.So, as a white Virgin carried outof a white church by candlelightjumps, we jump. Our childbumps the walls with a fever.In a moment without decisions,a little flashlight illuminates your arm.