Bella Senorita
if playing the piano were like breathing
she would be the oxygen flowing
happily through my veins
i mistake her for a french woman
but she is spanish
but she could easily look
french
every word that comes from
her mouth is a poem
her hair is black as a
raven's wing
and she walks like she plays
chopin
her fingers strolling across the
keyboard
as i imagine we could be doing
along the streets of seville
or madrid
if i were picasso, i would
paint her the way she plays
in long, broad strokes,
always abstract
which would be an accomplishment
since i'm a concrete poet
though like dali, sometimes,
i allow my mind to travel
outside of my body
i want to feel her playing the
" clare de lune,"
even as the night gives us wings