Señora,

the craze has made me love you,

has made me fill my shirt

with shark-toothed roses

and spill my heart-sick guts

at the feet of a frigid bishop.

I've scratched around the waiting-rooms

to deserts for a beauty

that is just but not fair;

I've looked into the eyes of heaven

for a pair dark but not blue.

Señora,

you know me.  At harvest

I need not explain,

the sanctity of maiz.

If nothing else, let's go off

a few minutes and make music–

you can teach me the guitar;

the stars you wear for warmth

will help me find the frets

and give my voice the shimmering

melancholy

of our inheritance, yours and mine.