The True Spain

The True Spain

Consonance of hill and shoulder
And beyond the graven valley.

And the sun a low sepulchral monarch
Red as habit slaughtered
In mysterious inclusions:
An end to paraphrase, the decimal encounter.

Above the inveterate leaf, the pale cone of the locust;
Within, the thigh-bound lilt of thirst—

Then the guitar, the blood-stemmed voice no older.

Remorse is full unknowable heart—
The gulf become desire is its song.