Intuitive
Poetry
trade winds bath us all in the name of wafting Reggaetón; I’m thinking of love stories and hell. figures pass featureless before glazen eyes, the Gypsy Ballads
dim slightly, almost too late, and by some unplanned impact I see them exactly, better than before, at last a glorious red strain enters my breast. he’s a short man with
black hair and legs that swivel like a circus when he advances, only the littlest grimace around his mouth, his mate with matching crutches and abstract limbs all her own, children
swirling beneath with freedom but still some of the pain.
©Daniel Barry, 2022






