An email from Eileen has prompted the memory of this poem of mine, posted in an earlier version to As/Is some months ago.

Flirting
for Eileen Tabios

                    So the distances are Galatea
                    & one does fall in love.....
                    Charles Olson: The Distances

It is a dance in two
parts. Is ritual.

Pop song from the
Forties. A trip to the moon.

The bull, the matador.
Dance, ritual, death.

Whose death? A las
cinco de la tarde.

Usually the bull. Sometimes
the matador. Provocation

can have unexpected results.
A procession of flagellants

passes by. I am drunk on the
smell of fermented mangoes.

Red sand blood white.
What colour are your eyes?