There were the Sunday afternoons
we played volleyball without keeping score—
jungle rules, the sense of being friends
without seeking leverage, when breathing
air was the center of what it meant
to be happy.
Now, like Singer, we wander desolate streets
haunted by ghouls—Jacob not knowing he is dead
already, killed in the bush—nor we—who think
it a dream from which will awaken. How else
to explain the vile ugliness of creatures
we believe cannot be real.
Before the crack, we rode our bikes one afternoon,
stopped on the edge of Town Lake, watched
the sunlight dance on the water’s surface.
How wonderful you said. I still believe, Ann
writes in the last page of her diary—only days
before she is arrested.
from García Lorca is Somewhere in Produce