John Matthias

In memory of Octavio Paz not even lost in death the memory of why we burned, and therefore still a fire consuming all obsequious delay, now polvo, dust, of a desire but still alive and aching, not even lost to you within our common urn, urgent as an ash still burning alma, soul, still and moving toward you, la muerte, my amor— not even lost in death, memoria, and feeling some reply, alma, memory and ash, ash burning still, still and moving toward you, dust and dust, ash alma and amor constante más allá de la muerte, constant even in our common urn, polvo enamorado.

In memory of Anthony Kerrigan The pure shapes of things shake and are fall ing under the cry of bajo el cri cri and chirping of the six margaritas daisies that I loved but now know deflower when the men bent upon murdering me bend down in cabinets and on cliffs and in cafes where some flamenco guitarist breaks his fingers on the grave accents   /   /   /     breaks his fingers on the acute \ \ hunting now even in the graves