After Lorca

Moon—chrome tear on the cheekbone
of Cruach Mhárthain—seeping through
skylight, roof tiles and concrete,
swimming the room in silver: like a tide
pouring out in spate, the stranger I hold back
from watching daily, new planets
travelling at speed over water. Moon.
Madness of spring tides. Stillness in the head
like a hurricane. The bed is a white space
that is travelling, travelling. My body’s a cut-out
on the Sea of Tranquility—mercury dappling
of night swims—making it beautiful
to the one who isn’t here: tall, dangerous
white lady—outside the door now,
turning the key. Eyes: crescents of glacier,
breasts of polished tin.