to Regino Sainz de la Maza

and breathing out through a coral torso
way, this way the air went!  Soon 

I knew the moon
was a horse’s skull
and the air a dark, red apple

behind the leaded panes, 
with whips and lights, I felt a fight 
of arid sands with water, saw 

leaves of grass tumble
in bales tossed to bleating lambs
lodged in their little teeth and lancets,

and the very first dove flew encased
in a dropshell 
of featherbombs and plastic.  Clouds herded, 

a wind-chafed shepherdess, 
falling asleep in the dark contemplated 
the duel of rock hills with the dawn.

My boy!  The grasses roll, come down to us, 
salivating swords that sluice through 
the thin sagging belly of the sky!

My hand, my love. The grasses!
By the broken glass inside the home
the bloody fists that undid your locks of hair

you and I, yes we alone
lay out your bones for the showing.
We two, just two, remain.

Prepare your bones.
Be quick for this, amor, be quick
and look to make our sleepless profile.

Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi