Every night the moon is full.

Buildings, broad-shouldered, are canyon-cutting
up through the stone and earth:
they know themselves

and the monuments, with sky in their eyes,
ignore me, looking ever down:

there is blood beneath the cobblestones
that hearts still move about.

You smell food in the light,
cigarettes in the dark,
and the difference is gentle,
like the breeze in November.
Sweet Henry,
sweet Ricardo,
dream me into city dreams
amongst the beating boom of living lusting rock

Here,
to catch your breath
is to put it in a jar,
seal it up
and start to build a pathway.

Madrid is breathing me,
in and out and in
to the streets, in
to the open-shuttered bedroom
warm as hand-held brass.

Life is a city, this city,
so heavily human,
so full
so unlike empty meadows, flowers and fields
that know nothing.