Within, dark threads tangled with dark,
sweet the tortures of intimacy.
What did she have to hide?
A lady of title and some wealth,
one who could loan a castle, older -
as always in such company
he was ready to kiss the ground
she floated just above,
the suddenly close air she seemed to breathe,
kiss even her ladyship, this one nothing
if not safe for the artist intent
on spinning free of entanglements.
Cut off by a sea the shade of flame,
not the salt blue of tears well drowned,
she stood, a centuries-older woman
fading like any other, still tied
to her island knot by rotting knot.
Beyond the one hardwood, the prickly bush,
a tree of needles and a blood orange,
red-stained sky joined seamlessly to sea.
Keeping a distance close enough
to pass for love, her falcon hunted a heron
through humdrum the young Rilke was convinced
only the faithful ever professed to know,
one lady-in-waiting, one lapdog, one desire.
RAFAEL CAMPO
Camino Real
I speak by cutting ruts in air. The dust -
Imagine that it's gold, the Spaniards did -
Is caking in my throat. And when I sing,
Pretend the hawks aren't vanishing, pretend
