[Tony Barnstone]

Hi Folks,

It's been a while since I wrote poems, but this one came out today, a form I rarely write in (terza rima), so I thought I would come back into the conversation. Enjoy, I hope!

An Alley in San Francisco

Along the side street come
strange unicorns.
--Federico Garcia Lorca

A white hoof tufted with silver hair had rung
the metal garbage bin like a dull bell,
startling the black rat from his nest of dung

to scrabble through crusted condoms, maggoty gel
of week-old chicken stir-fry, tossed out, mangled,
like the ingredients of a witch’s spell.

In a streetlight’s elbow the full moon tangled
in a torn web, where a glistening drop of dew
captured the satellites’ red glare and spangled

stars, like a mind or eye and I kissed you
while sirens wailed from somewhere past the sky,
or tried to kiss but hit a cheek when you

heard a sound, turned your head. You and I
laughed into this alleyway, arms hooked,
somewhat too drunk to see what’s in the eye,

the witchery that filled the air with crooked
shadows. What looked out of the fog at us?
Wavered in moonlight? What golden gaze? We looked

but seers see their sight, spiders fuss
with webs that they themselves create. Don’t say
“I see”; say “I am sight.” Who knows what was

missed with that clumsy kiss, what went astray
and was left dying in the alleyway?

--------------
The original:

An Alley in San Francisco

Along the side street come
strange unicorns.
--Federico Garcia Lorca

A white hoof tufted with hair rung
the metal garbage bin like a dull bell,
startling the black rat from his nest of dung,

scrabbling through crusted condoms, maggoty gel
of week-old chicken stir-fry, tossed out, mangled,
like the ingredients of a witch’s spell.

In a streetlight’s elbow the full moon tangled
in a torn web, where a glistening drop of dew
captured the satellites’ red glare and spangled

stars like a brain or eye, like I and you,
who think our sticky brains can catch the sky,
launching our filaments to touch the blue

of wavelength scattering, like you and I,
who walked into this alleyway, arms hooked,
somewhat too drunk to see what’s in the eye.

The city felt unreal, distorted, crooked.
what looked out of the yellow fog at us?
wavered in moonlight? What golden gaze? We looked

but seers see their sight, spiders fuss
with webs that they themselves create. don’t say
“I see,” say “I am sight.” what was

the unicorn we couldn’t see to say
but love left dying in the alleyway?