As light communicates with the curb
Geometries spill across the street,
The homage in the white elegance of homes
To unknown Spaniards turns baroque.
Its art is the golden street, liquid fronds,
Green canvas sheet like a Hollywood wand
As if that's what light's for, to turn black birds silver
And vein diabolical what eyes would otherwise call real.
The iguana stares upright in his cage
At the clues the sun gives to the day,
A stare that seems empty as space. Of what he sees,
There is only what we feel there on his eye.
