Ode to Federico Garcia Lorca

i.

Dark earth bloodstain; pink seed

of pomegranate and good-hearted Spaniards

kicking back at Fascists. Granada, paradise

of castles and cobblestones where wind cuts

and music clings to whitewashed walls.

Tortured and shot, you died in pursuit of gannia,

deep song primitive. Buried in an unmarked grave,

brave man, maricon; loving man...