After Lorca
The clock says “When will it be morning?”
The sun says “Noon hurt me.”
The river cries with its mouthful of mud
And the sea moves every way without moving.
Out of my ear grew a reed
Never touched by mouth.
Paper yellows, even without flame,
But in words carbon has already become diamond.
A supple river of mirrors I run on
Where great shadows rise to the glance,
Flowing all forward and bringing
The world through my reflection.
A voice like a ghost that is not
Rustle that dead in passage
Leaving the living chilled,
Wipe clear the pure glass of stone.
Wipe clear the pure stone of flesh.
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