Eliot’s April, lost in the murky Themes—
last month a man driving a van, carrying a knife…
someone plunges from the bridge into the cold
brown water. Do you love me, the poet asks.
He pours a cup of coffee, is talking to a tree
outside his window, a moth flittering against
the glass.
Thunder rubbles to the west—a tornado watch.
A patch of bluebonnets so it must be Texas,
verbena purples. I was in London during the war,
but drown in the first wave, weighed down
with boots and lead, gasping. The dead everywhere,
he explains with gestures while drinking martinis
in the Algonquin bar.
How far we have traveled only to arrive here.
I call you last night in a dream, and you answer,
expecting my call. My thinking you were angry
with me, but you simple say hello as if were about time.
Then I wake. From my bathroom window I hear
water dripping from the roof.
from García Lorca Is Somewhere in Produce