Lorca:

'Areesaig', 'Morrarr...'

the beach stands up

in little whirlwinds of ash

in my Hispanic mouth,

the dunes become chintz

statues of white sand,

poodles with griffon beaks.

Mannerism of stranded sea-horses!

Salute a small poet

murdered for being red and gay.

All the spaces of Scotland

disclose me without warning,

beam me down from whatever limbo
buries in the olive prose of death.

Now: this purgatory,

ghost country whose name

never crossed my lips.

Morar, morire, muerte:

my very element

from which I hail Atlantic

breakers and you

'beautiful old Walt Whitman'.