Eternal Granada

…is the world a poem
we’re all composing?

Leonard, you said Mystery lives Lorca lives
in New York City
in the way Magic is alive God is alive
in Montreal

But today on el Paseo de los Tristes
sightseers swear they saw uncanny figures,
kindred shades, one chanting
the other playing a flamenco guitar

their lyrics and strings striking light
in the white-stone place
the gypsies call
the area of morning

From B.W. Powe’s Andalusian poems, a work in progress