The 67th ode to Lorca

I can see the arrangements of desire
leaking through the days
with me, maybe, wanting
to be as pretty as New York
or at least as alluring
Maybe then Lorca's ghost
could see some icy purity in the colour of my morning eyes
Maybe he would look in them and see some child's fantasy
his/mine/the world's/New York's
Lorca is dead
I read his words translated and wonder
if I am missing some great Spanish secret
If I read it in Spanish would I then wonder if
I was missing some great personal
secret of Lorca's?
Do all men who collect the colours of frail life
lend themselves to day with such burning hearts
that even the sun wilts like a picked flower before them?
Lorca you were one of these men
Lorca whose blood was redder than mine
Lorca whose neighbours never whispered about notebooks and inky fingers
Lorca who cried into his white linen
Lorca who graffitied sonnets onto the untamed wind
Who ate oranges in summer and drank wine all year round
Lorca, would you waltz with me?
Lorca, would you get drunk with me?
Lorca, would you swim with me?
Lorca, would you lay down with me?
Lorca sees nothing now
His ghostly eyes are closed to all but the starry sky
and I haven’t a call like N.Y.
so I'm left with nought
but the English translations
of his heavenly burning-heart words...
(The sun weeps and I slowly sigh)

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