after García Lorca

Morning by tree of blood is moistened
Where the newly delivered woman groans.
Her voice leaves crystals in the wound
And in the window a print of bones.

While the light comes in secure and gains
White boundaries of oblivious fable
In the race from the turmoil of the veins
Into the clouded coolness of the apple,

Adam dreams in the fever of clay
Of a child who draws near galloping
With the double throb of his cheek its way

But another darker Adam sleeping
Dreams of neuter seedless stone moon afar
Where the child of light is kindling.