In paradise the smell of engine oil
Will undercut the roses. The carburetors
Of Eden will distract the seraphim.

Open yourself up: today
that's no different than opening
a refrigerator door: large chunks

Where each drop of blood
struck: lips in the dirt.
And on my chest as I

He’s not what you expected
As you might have expected.

For so long, I have wanted relatively nothing
Except, perhaps, this chance to write it down:
Here, for example, near a fire in a cold house,
A wide, full valley out my window

Perhaps, like everything, it has its flow and ebb,
The way nowhere, I mean, your brutal question.
Not that you were asking me. You asked no one

Madinat al-Zahra—wasn't that the name
of my jasmine ruin, my source of jasmine
when, trailing Lorca and the Sephardim,

Is that what he's saying? You can't be sure—
And this isn't the usual stance of prayer;
Still, it's what I hear as I look at him—

It could have been a matter of modesty
It could have been the gold sewn in your dress
You might even have feared for your chastity

It was foolish planning to arrive at noon 
But, in retrospect, it doesn’t really matter. 
There was a bar, after all, where we bought water