She writes by the edge of a single flickering candle -

scented with the bell toll, another
cardinal in crimson bows, the duke
and duchessa ghouls in gangling limbs
feast on the meat of sinners at the
great masking, the carnival where
queens are bone-ragged, kings
uncrowned, poems digested in
polyglot and rhyme.

She does not remember Valencia -

just the ferris wheel pumping plush
prerogatives, thinner girls fornicate,
froth at the mouth in sight of a single
flesh-ribbed pointe shoe, Venetian
courtesans litter the libraries, French
invaders place coins on the ides of
March before their bald frescos decay
underneath the acid of graffiti spray

She writes about Valencia -

as though sectors could proclaim
marvelous aristocracies, bordello
tree houses, foxhole fucking, socks
knocked down toward ankles, she
shivers, hairlines quiver, the leotards
web across hips and buttock, a low
moan unsung, scratch a hungry thirst,
she takes a husband fashionably, sows
her ribcage into the position of pose,
she is passé and irrelevant, though she
does not realize it, hunting as she is
the white wick of the moon, inconstant
as soft prayer.

She recognizes the priest in Valencia -

reconciles with the cure of stone
thrust at skin, face untwisted, the
irony of eyeliner, empty womb'd, old,
forgettable, dysfunctional, dismal damsel
in mid-caress, she knows nothing, just the
same sound her foot makes as she moves,
the same tremor of the soul escaping,
the same weekdays weigh heavy like

the ocean where she floats,
debris unclaimed.