Lorca and the Crash

He told you they wouldn't save us.
Yes, him, that man from Granada,
that poet with his heart in the clouds.

He told you as he stood
shivering in New York's blush;
He told you, in a whisper,
while the rain cleansed is breath
and ran its hands through his hair.
He was watching when the men, women and rings
were falling from the windows.
Standing, awash in thier grey, paralyzed dissent,
his breath vanished when he imaged
the height to which their hearts had raised
when they were about to realized the prophecy
of thier final steps.

The granite phallus of the horse
took their souls,
and they didn't save them.
It was just like he said.
The tongues of those fallen were misplaced
along with thier grocery lists and love letters.
The weathered faces of their children
were blank, and, as he gazed at thier eyes stained with sorrow,
a deep sympathy of moonlight rose in his veins.

Those women in the shoestores didn't save them.
It was just like he said. And, when he left the city,
first for the woods and then for Havana,
he raised his voice and his pen for the Hudson,
for the sleepless, and for the Moon.

While the fallen bodies were peeled off the streets
our beloved poet sang in the diction of death
for the Moon.