For Conchita García Lorca

Moon came to the forge

in her petticoat of nard

The boy looks and looks

the boy looks at the Moon

In the turbulent air

Moon lifts up her arms

showing — pure and sexy —

her beaten-tin breasts

Run Moon run Moon Moon

If the gypsies came

white rings and white necklaces

they would beat from your heart

Boy will you let me dance —

when the gypsies come

they’ll find you on the anvil

with your little eyes shut

Run Moon run Moon Moon

I hear the horses’ hoofs

Leave me boy! Don’t walk

on my lane of white starch

The horseman came beating

the drum of the plains

The boy at the forge

has his little eyes shut

Through the olive groves

in bronze and in dreams

here the gypsies come

their heads riding high

their eyelids hanging low

How the night heron sings

how it sings in the tree

Moon crosses the sky

with a boy by the hand

At the forge the gypsies

cry and then scream

The wind watches watches

the wind watches the Moon