In gay April Federico left Holy Week for
   his dark love. He wed grasshoppers on
                  the orange tree sun. Soul and earth.

   As a memento he put his spearmint guitar
   in a weathercock spinning eternally
                  over the stallion sea.

   In grave July generals Mola and Franco
   crossed from Spanish Morocco with bomb
                  and cross. Bulls of blood.

   and death. Lampposts froze in Granada.
   Lorca got off a train, hid in a friend’s
                  attic. The Fascia gale found him.

   He was handcuffed to two anarchist
   bullfighters and a blind schoolteacher,
                  Even Falla couldn’t save him.

   Lorca took extra bullets in the ass
   for being a mariposa (butterfly). ‘Give him
                  more coffee!’ Code for lead.

   At Fuente Grande before dawn, below olive trees,
   not by his piano, not in his best café,
               Lorca’s blood became ink, 
   
   our ink in books, and sounded in eyes
   on stage. At five in the black morning,
                   Federico, at exactly five,

   on August ’36 at five on the dot in the
   heart of the ignominious morning,
                  Granada’s poet left the black moon

   under his olive trees by the small cemetery’s
   execution wall. Sighs rebound between
                  snow mountains of the Sierra

   before aurora dew or sun breeze can
   clean up the blood. A small bird of paper
                  in the lungs declares

   that the hour of kisses has not arrived.