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.