She poured the Morricone, so deeply
red and afflicted, disaffected yet
in the piano light oddly senti-
mental. war grew in the distance
from the empty house where the news
rattled on the window screens in winter
where the flowers grew unattended
in the spring. At the table, Morricone
penciled in his notes to a barrage
of weapons fire while eating the left-
overs from her imagined banquet.
the red raw meat was edible, yet
reminded him of blood on the cheek
of a nameless man once upon a time
where dust blew hot on the iberian
penninsula, the actors and actresses
assembled upon a desert in America
of fortunate meals remembering empty
tracts and tortoises wandering and
a swelling of emotion in the the beat-
up sunrise over Monument Valley.
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