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Around Tamar the gypsies throng:
the gypsy virgins wail,
and others gather up the drops
her martyred flower spills.
In chambers locked and shuttered now
white linens seem to blush
—Tamar, erase my eyes
with your unmoving dawn.
My threads of blood will intertwine
as frills along your hem.
—My brother, leave me be in peace.
Your kisses on my spine
are wasps and spindly winds that form
twin swarms of reedy pipes.
to José Moreno Villa
Silence thick with lime and myrtle.
Mallows in the windlestraw.
The nun embroiders gillyflowers
on a field of flaxen cloth.
From the grizzled spider lantern
seven prism-birds erupt.
Far away the church is grumbling,
like a bear turned belly-up.
Splendid needlework! How graceful!
On her flaxen tapestry,
she is yearning to
to Conchita García Lorca
The moon arose: her stage the forge,
her bustle spiced with lavender.
The child watches, watches her;
his eyes are watching her.
A rousing dance bestirs the air:
the moon contorts her limbs
and flaunts — lubricious, sleek, and pure —
her breasts of solid tin.
—Be on your way now, moon, moon, moon.
If gypsies come, take