i think of Lorca
in the field
beneath spain's
cruel sun
field wrens
screeching
the gypsies'
lament
startled by sharp
and abrupt
reports
rending the
drowsing
afternoon air

the soldiers
merely boys as
green as the
early summer
wheat
as their own
uniforms
turning back
toward the
muddied jeep
thinking of
lovers
and eager
for pussy
heading back
into town
to sip some
sour
ruby wine
and disregard
their deed

and i dream
of his heart
in that melancholy
field
splintered by
the youthful
bullets of duty
into those violet
and crepuscular
dragonflies
skimming
hovering above
the backwaters
of his tender
solicitude