Classic Poem

for Federico Garcia Lorca & Richard Mohan

Because of his deafness
he misses the fighting of the cats
(on the stairs). What else
does he miss? All
the other flesh-colours
for this one flesh colour,
the excellence of its hunting
blood, perfect condition,
extreme, exquisite
pink; on the thirty-first day,
bodies kept only the allowable
thirty days; things not written,
fleeing (in to and out of
the throat) the vanity of the limited
edition fountain pen, the
cenotaph of paper? I turn to his brown
face, his ordinary grin. I hadn't
been close enough to him to know
he had chipped a tooth. It
upset me more than it should.
Who was he? It
wasn't until fear registered
in their faces that he recognized
them. Those people are recognized
by their fear.