Pero los ramos son alegres,
los ramos son como nosotros.
-Lorca
So, we left the artillery
Blooming in the fields of blight
And crept along that music
As flower architects.
My fried rabbi, gloating,
Combs the night’s hair?
Father, you are my triple tomb and
No cherry blossoms in the
Graffiti ward, as the metaphors
Lounge upon that bricked
Naiveté. I have only one life and
Wear a sweater of shadows,
But my mouth seeds forever
Autumn’s hopeful decrees.
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