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He's in his element, finding his stride
for every two of hers, beating the boot-worn
path to England's roof. She gave her word
to go along this once, to climb her mountain,
but hardly warms to the "hard pulse of walking",
the pace with which they poach their bird's eye view.
Surely this unexpected tarn will win
the town girl round, this startled blink of blue
from sleeping green. Surely she'll love heath.
But she's short sighted, short legged, short of breath
and when at dusk they round the clouded peak
his heart drops. Her empty gaze brings back
that reason she once gave for falling for
and still obliging him. Because he's there.
From Brando's Hat No 5 (Summer 1999)
I hear shots.
It’s the wind, I say.
Then, loud murmurs.
Surely the fountain below my room.
The moon is a bruised fist tonight.
It has obliterated the stars.
I sleepwalk across the tiny island
to you, mi Hombre Sin Miedo,
my stony love.
It’s dark and the padre in the chapel
with his missing arm and chipped toes
is soaked in yellow holy halo.
But you mi amor, my lichen-crusted
beloved, stand against this moon-lit wall,
eyes sewn to the sea. Such sadness
in the curve of your spine, the tilt of your neck.
Does the smell of death still reek
through the crevices of this blood-stained wall?
Do the cries of men in Franco’s blizzard of lead
still echo in the chiseled chambers of these ears?
Here are my eyelashes.
Take them in your lips.
Here is my forehead.
Let it rest on your chin.
Here is my tongue.
Something behind the wall shudders and
shakes
the ancient oak. Leaves flutter and rain.
We kiss like ghosts.
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