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 surfaces of the water
confined to limbs and horns
though its points are gathered from the burning bodies
of spheres set apart, distended along empty lines.
between them light travels for thousands of years.
here on the sea, we measure the myth
with hands, and bows, and the moving tides