Flamenco Summer

We are saccharine caramel clad morsels welded by the tectonic might of the Earth’s downtrodden salt, seared in union with the bucolic bread of Bethlehem We are verdant jars our curvaceous bodies hold the purest Malbec, its fragrance anchoring the palettes of inebriates, conquistadors, and saints alike, to our Jesuit lighthouse We are gliding sapphire silk silhouettes dancing in Sevillan shadows to the rhythm of Andalusian undulations each fiery nylon stab, a layered delicacy that strips your gothic façade and exposes your soiled innards