after Lorca
Woe, woe, woe;
fallen star of heaven.
The streets fill with silence
and towels catching the wind.
In the open morning
you reach the corners of the sky –
torch-bright apple flesh,
dust bloodying your bells.
Daylight lingers in your throats,
choking each unfolding face.
Snow-beaten hydra: another tongue,
a bleeding anther.
If Christ died for sinners,
are the honest free or damned?
I shall come clean – deadhead me,
dig my roots in promised land.
Woe, woe, woe;
fallen star of heaven.
The streets fill with silence,
towels catching the wind.