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Anna Akhmatova burned
her poems and the light of Madrid was like water
at La Latina luncheonette I ate a cup of chocolate
and a motor oil churro
every day for a week
recovering
the cherry bomb alley2 that was our street
Hotel Chelsea ablaze3 from a rum-soaked pillow and a cigarette， 1977
iron balconies were dropping like lace
windows were popping like sobs
Can you describe this？ someone asked
Anna Akhmatova
as she stood on line Yes
she said I can
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