In memory of Anthony Kerrigan

The pure shapes of things shake and are fall
ing under the cry of bajo el cri cri
and chirping of the six margaritas
daisies that I loved but now know deflower
when the men bent upon murdering me bend
down in cabinets and on cliffs and in cafes
where some flamenco guitarist breaks his fingers
on the grave accents / / / breaks
his fingers on the acute

\
hunting now
even in the graves under walls of tall iglesias
the well where I am not hides from
those who dug the gold from wisdom teeth
of the wise and dig it still and dig it
also from between my thin skeleton's bowed ribs
but Ah

\
will not find me any more but less
than six, the moon, de pronto, loss itself
disarticulated bones in hiding place pues encore
my absence from I am
comprendo nonetheless the names
of pure shapes of things that shake and are fall
ing all loss los nombres under cry cry
the pure shaping things out of their somersault
out of themselves