Tuesday, May 15, 2007

La aurora (after García Lorca)

Dawn in New York has a thousand
crystals on bedrock and a maelstrom
of humans in glass arteries
splashing frantically in digital waters.

Dawn in New York pokes
money through the ventricles of the disemboweled,
eradicating, along with spikenard,
the inexcusable anguish of pigeons.

Dawn in New York arrives like a rube off a cattle car
and is processed immediately. It is flavorless,
like all appliances, and feigns hope
in its swarming icons and holes.

Those awake on the rails accept paradise
on the corner of Oblivion and Seventh,
a rap fugue beating relentlessly
to the steel carcasses of a theatrical splendor.

All light shivers with an abundant clarity,
yet under the chains is no rootless science but
the sleek neck of a child. The commuters sigh from
the suburbs as if they had survived a shipwreck of blood.

(This poem appeared in Stand.)

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