20 May 2008. Gray gray gray, endless gray. But not entirely. The deep maroon Zephyr Express, for example, moored just across the way, filled with worn wooden crates of Andalucian wine--unlikely--as the driver ducks into the 7-eleven for a cup of java--or some giant front-end iced wonder on a would-be summer morning.
Last night: Lorca, otra vez. His gacelas--the late poems, on Moorish forms. Two by three by two by three by two. Aljeciras, Lebrija, the gardens of Granada. Albarocas--pools, fountains, from one courtyard to the next... La puerta de la calle...
Yo quiero que el agua se quede sin cauce.
Yo quiero que el viento se quede sin valles.
Quiero que la noche se quede sin ojos
y mi corazón sin la flor de oro...
No comments:
Post a Comment