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White lights,

A morning train from Valdemoro --

Why have they turned them on?
Nothing like darkness
to soothe the fog,

the vision that climbs the hills
of each stranger's face
and attempts escape through a window.

The car is now
a compartment of eyes:

Pinto, San Cristobal,
Atocha.

Clear, wet ribbons
cut down by the sky.
A vein-work of yellow fields on the glass,
growing.

The harder it rains,
the more you learn about distance.

On either side two men
are speaking Russian.


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Here is Lorca's "After a Walk," from which I've taken a line.

After a Walk

Cut down by the sky.
Between shapes moving toward the serpent
and crystal-craving shapes
I'll let my hair grow.

With the amputated tree that doesn't sing
and the child with the blank face of an egg.

With the little animals whose skulls are cracked
and the water, dressed in rags but with dry feet.

With all the bone-tired, deaf-and-dumb things
and a butterfly drowned in the inkwell.

Bumping into my own face, different each day.
Cut down by the sky!