Saturday, June 30, 2012

The Murder of García Lorca

The moon listing port. The steel pellets 
      of my throat choke me under the Granada light.
      I hear lamenting in the stones, the soil mutilated
by a ditch. Music heard in the harvest is music
      unheard. How can it be written, the fragility
      of a song? Be palpable here and all 
is lost. Be equivocal and all is meaningless.
Do the Falangists always win? Why not?
      Occurrences I know nothing of: to smell olives
on a tree that grew faster than my limbs,
      to savor oranges and water, "to sleep the dream
of apples." I listen, but I do not hear, I wake,
      sequestered among moldy bricks and the black tar, 
where the skunks crushed by the cars still stink.

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