Seville to Wound!

Fredrico Garcia Lorca is my favorite poet. 
I don’t read Spanish, 
but even in translation, 
his poems sing.

He does wonders with nouns, 
with concrete things. 
Lizards sing, 
so do crickets, 
little mute boys, 
and orange trees.  

The stuffy sermons of preachers
don’t transcend, 
but the stars 
and what they illuminate 
on the road to Seville 
the stones
the trees 
the warm blood 
and the singing heart. 

Fredrico Garcia Lorca was murdered, 
because he loved.