En
la luna negra
de
los bandoleros,
cantan las espuelas....
cantan las espuelas....
(Federico
García Lorca)
The
guitar awaiting midnight
the
missing tea set
flesh
fed to fat fish
in
South Atlantic nets
the
looking glass
the
rabbit hole
Alma
Venus rising
from the sea.
What
you breathe every yesterday
is
the other side of matter.
At
some point transpires the completely uncivilized sentence
streaming
up like bubbles from the sunken Islets of the Blessed.
(E. A. Costa 25 September 2013)
