“Don’t ask me any questions. I’ve seen how things that seek their way find their void instead.”
― Federico García Lorca, Poet in New York
It was the time of claws and cloudbursts.
How dead grasshoppers
Bring in air
Resume their path
How roads become houses
And houses become
Trees in a corpse
Of beating roses
Lost,
In the markets of malady.
I was late to the search party.
It was the time of the thawing sea.
How when I close my eyes
Its warm wind sweeps hair
From my face
The way my grandmother
Did with her hands,
To see my eyes.
I was late to the shore.
So very late
That discussing
Lateness
Was disgusting.
I was late to disgust.
But, how late was I?
I have seen those times
And I do not ask for much:
The geometry of godliness
In a household of utopia
So utterly common
That sitting in the sun
Eating grapes,
Painted men
Can discuss,
Noisy failures.
How late can I be
To see my city
Latched
Under a trapdoor
With rice
And fries
And goblets of
Washing soda.
My city watched
As
Books were being
Washed
Wringed
And put to dry
Under a
Blasphemous sun.
My city, a wish
My city, an eye
I will not be late
To my crowning wish:
How with a lifted head
My city,
Singing so proud
To be alive and coarse,
Strong and cunning.
