Cuban poet Felix Varela

Havana

havana skin
strangely perfumed
devouring me slowly
extreme spirit
of coffee and a cigarette
in the morning.
havana your skin
is a weird call
to the universe
magic essence
half-open curtain
ideal flat refusal
block of pages
flock
with no more winter than
that on their imagination
wing opened to the wind
a vibration without antecedent
havana your skin
is not made of asphalt
neon granite rum
it is made of childhood
spring dew butterfly flower scent
figurative nostalgia
impossible night to peel off.  ¶ 6:18 AM