Returning to the Sunken Pallas Atlantis

I don’t want you to recognize me when I return. I don’t want to recognize myself.

Fly with me through the throat of the night. I’m choosing to tell you where my shadow has been only after I’ve already left. I crossed the pastel pinks of Lisbon to reach the baked red of Spanish clay. Time evaporated. The beautiful familiar meaninglessness. I have been feverishly awaiting this metamorphosis. I adopted the song of Lisboa, the burgundy a…