Butterfly miracles emerge from croissants
according to my old galán whose memories
you may suppose have gone astray.
He summons words correctly in this case.
Sipping coffee mornings in the cool
mango shade I contemplate upon the vines
a guild of well-trained multi-footed bakers
clad in segments, striped aprons of summer dress
unknown to furry fingerlings we knew up north.
That fertile pastry moons crisped in torrid oven
sun cradle butterflies, does not amaze me.
Shall I pluck and place upon my yielding
tongue these flaky curved croissants?
In my belly will I feel unfold the golden wings?
2010 - present
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