That Granada Night
Your memory
is the silver lark of death
waiting for love
to outshine time
You are in that Granada night
snaking through sandy alleys
into the underworld
where lament drew blood
and tears formed red stars
to shroud the moon
You were my laughter
Floating down river
Caught by the lip of the cave
Sucked into dark
Where the myths of
openings to the underworld
are real,
I kissed blue lips
once blood red
Take me downriver
where the cave
opens into
night.
Sunday Morning
the streets on a Sunday morning
are naked, spent
worn out by walking
yelling, frivolling
by the light of the steady moon
and the sigh of the morning sun
a patrol car passes by
red, blue, red, blue
the birds are sleeping in the trees
the leaves are waving
heavy and tired
the composer next door
is scratching a note
out of the ether
to join a strand
that strips the heart of joy
and stains the eyes black
I am putting the words in place
slotting them into the puzzle
letting the picture be remade
and they are forming life
these never ending vicissitudes
of flavor, of lust, of trying
searching
in the air just beyond the vision
where now and here and there and then
are united
and the only truth
is that everything is
has been and shall always be.
Bells
The bells of the church
are soldiers all in a row
The bells of the rubbish collectors
are stars of yellow cleanliness
The bells of the tamale seller
are bluebirds encaged
The bells of the ironmonger
are red sapphires burning
The bell on the stranger´s bike
is a little bird fallen from the nest
The parade bell
is a silver button
falling from a proud chest
The wedding bell
is a starched witness
The funeral bell
a sigh from the other world
Soñando
Ando soñando
con rayos de brillo
congelados
e instantes
crujientes
de ojos retornables
y de barcos en alta mar
la luz está hecha de cuchillos
y dientes pulidos
está mañana
es la única que puede cambiar
sin resistencia
mi alma
por una manta y una paloma
sin piernas
aquí siento el aliento
del pasado
y las manos del tejedor
él que hizo el aire frío
como una nube
para cubrir el cuerpo
de cada mujer
aquí está sentada
la pregunta
que te pica
cuando la pronuncias
porque es de cuernos y
polvo de plata
aquí el aire
está construido de
especias y
noches largas sin descanso
Aquí atrás de la luz
están las memorias ya casi borradas
las que nunca volverás
a vivir.
Dreaming
I go along dreaming
of rays of frozen
brightness
and creaking
instants
of recyclable eyes
and ships in high seas
the light is made of knives
and polished teeth
this morning is the only one
that can change
without resistance
my soul
for a blanket and a dove
without legs
here I feel the breath
of the past
and the hands of the weaver
he who made the cold air
like a cloud
to cover the body
of every woman
Here the question sits
the question that pricks
when you pronounce it
because it´s made of horns
and silver dust
here the air
is made of
spices and
long nights without rest
here behind the light
are the memories now almost erased
those that you will never ever
live again
