Muse

A place in
my heart
my soul
my libido
has been:
 
              torn on long walks to nowhere
              from Cordoba to Sevilla,
              holy faces with holy smiles radiating
              on sleepless nights.
 
              murdered by angry shotguns
              slipping away on Spanish credit,
              thousands of trumpets blasting
              down shell-scarred avenues;
              the crescendo rippling
              below the surface.
 
              saved for angels, unclean muses
              perfected with imperfection
              in the destructive wake of
structure     form and stark-raving expression.