The Box Kite Clotheslines lead us to San Sebastian

We take a train north to San Sebastian.
Clotheslines like box kites. Green
flat rivers. We drink canas of beer and
the rioja wine and end up on vodka con limon
while our bartender in the bar carriage
performs little feats of magic with toothpicks
and light coins. There's a Mexican with a
groove in his skull from a jealous .38.
We arrive in the dark and find a pensione
and eat fried mushrooms and sit on empty
aluminum kegs of beer in a tapas bar.
The city has three bridges and we walk
over them zigzagging towards the sea.
We hit the sea. It's three in the morning
and I run down to the sea, unbuttoning
my shirt. The woman with the broken arm
is unravelling her sling and tensor
bandage. We fall into the dark surf. There
are other writers with us but I can't
name them here for we are all naked and
drunk and wrestling in the wet sand.
Fortunately no one thinks to click a
camera. The black sea and the hovering
green Jesus of San Sebastian lording
over us.