The Sun, Which Can Do Everything

Lies and deceit were buried on that day.
All of Granada was out in the streets and the carnival
featured poets, of course, reciting their verses
from the top of a carriage to the clouds
and birds, to the waters of a lake heroically
staving off pollution. And there he stood
with his white hair, black beret and eyes
that have seen God amid the smoke of marijuana
and the blue-tinged volcanoes of Nicaragua, watching
from out the disorder. There was no disorder in him,
though: he was still that same boy who wrote verses
for Claudia, the seminarian who introduced us
to Pound, the young poet leaning out the window
of the room where Alfonso Cortés went mad.
All of Granada was out in the streets,
musicians, dancers, ballerinas. The sun,
which can do everything, called for silence.
Off on a corner Marilyn was standing. I recognised
her amid the crowd, wearing dark glasses
and waving goodbye.