Lorca/ Neruda

I read both your books
until all I saw was a thin sky,
a cold blue voice against my closed eyelids.
Your words I huddled over
as if over all my dead lovers,
and held a torch to their precious faces,
reading, weeping. I was happy.
I took your songs
and kept them in my ear’s hold for days,
until they were wax
and something I could fashion
into winds, centuries,
poorly mended hearts.
I read both your books
and turned them into a thin sky.
When I walked in the cusp of my solitude,
there where I gazed, your
translucent sorrows,
wounded clouds, something to learn from.
And when it rained,
all I could hear was poetry.

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