Lorca

 

 

A man whose eyes are shot through with gold thread,

Whose eyes are numbers, sums foretelling the wires–

 

Whose lips steer a song of the harvest knife

Though there are many, too many to be sung.

 

A man can be the wheat at the end of summer,

Can be a wheel, innocent, his pulse

 

The revolutions of a long, clear night of love.

& when September comes

 

A man can be the first leaf in the fountain–

Perfect, death's butterfly…

 

 

S.K.