Poem regarding Enric Miralles
if it weren't obscured by other things in the world
what we would see over the water
is a bull thrashing from the shore
pulled to the tesselated surface of the sea,
confined to limbs and horns.
its points are gathered from the burning bodies
of spheres, distended along empty lines,
rationally void, light years between them.
here on the sea, we measure the myth
with hands, and bows, and the moving tides.
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