In Memory of Garcia Lorca

 In Memory of Garcia Lorca

In my mind I see the clock

Is always five in the afternoon,

In my moons there are knives strangling

The night.

From my window I feel your eyes

Touching far away what was close to the heart,

The soil and blood of your people.

I remember the nights we flattered

By the sound of your music

Against the music of crickets wiping

Their legs together.

In some bestiary of my own you find

My soul made new in the animal clawing

The night away.

It was not the first time

I died that you died.

The way I see you lined up

After being dragged out of a warm house

Is not the way you want it.