February 16, 2006
Faces and Places
Right now it’s the middle of February and I’m listening to the improvised melody created when the two cicadas that are outside the open front door chime in and sing along with Ornette Coleman and this makes everything that was so wrong in my tiny life earlier today seem so far away and absolutely bearable and I can almost see my way clear to the wonderful that is dead on ahead.
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Desire
Federico Garcia Lorca
Only your hot heart,
and nothing more.
My paradise a field
without nightingales
or lyres,
with a discreet river
and a little fountain.
Without the spur of the wind
against the branch,
without the star that wants
to be the leaf.
An enormous light
that longs to be
the firefly
of another,
in a field of
defeated looks.
A clear repose
and there our kisses,
sonorous freckles
of Echo,
would open far away.
And your hot heart,
nothing more.
Posted by pogo at 6:26 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack