Winter 1994, Volume 11.1

Calle San Jerónimo

Once more The organgrinder turns around
And saunters towards you as you drop
To the sidewalk your orange peel
Like a spent note.

A dappled dog gets up and moves
Along the curb and howls once
As though some pain beneath the ground
Had winched his feet through chains
And cranks of genetic History.

By then you are a block away
And the organgrinder turns orange
Again and climbs the hill. The wind
Blows phrases in short sudden gusts like Prediction.

In this place where spring will not
Go away unless like fallen petals in the
Gutter, orange-colored flowers tumbling in unending flight,
Houses loom up and hide insistently
The secret, sunken gullies a door will soon
Expose behind.