After reading Lorca

[alannaeileen]

I would like to loiter in these instances
birthed by the pen
that spills a guttering cascade of words,
delineating the shape of your pristine melancholy,
that jewel of tragedy you guard,
burnished by solitude.
In privacy, those temples rise again
to greet your memory;
the ones you constructed
out of shrill winds and earth,
and threw, like a net,
over the steadfast land
of your fervor.

I would like to linger, momentarily,
on the threshold of your eyes,
to shake the languid iguana soul
into angelic wakefulness.
I wonder where you sleep
now, forever,
imbuing the grass that grows
from your secret grave
with the ardor of your verses;
I wonder if those who walk there
unknowingly imbibe the turbulent fumes
of your poetry, if they fall in love,
sing, dance, weep,
drop to their knees, babbling recitations,
alive with ecstasy and sorrow.