FGL . . .

by bookindian

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Moonlight

The moon is in the way,

it’s light
uncovers mystery
and desire.

She wants her sex
fulfilled . . .

Puritanism . . .
the great horror,
A wall of black mesh

between
the confessor
and truth

a labyrinthine
penance
on her knees . . .

She should have a baby . . .
seeds of lust,

four kettle drums
of desire
thwarted passion,
rage.

. . . the husband
and his revolver . . .

a black presence,

life
estranged
from love . . .

. . . she feels passion,

the horse
between her thighs

. . . without stirrups
clutching the mane,

the wind
always the wind . . .

ritual
pouring from the trees . . .

An enormous cape
spread
over the city . . .

a burlap sky
over the earth.

– – – – – – – – –

On the first day of Spring,
when green buds push their way into life,
I honor Federico Garcia Lorca . . .

in my way,
with stolen words.

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