In my copy of Lorca’s Poet in New York -
I was on the terrace, wrestling with the moon.
Swarms of windows riddled one of the night’s thighs.
Placid sky-cattle drank from my eyes
and the breezes on long oars
struck the ashen store windows on Broadway.
- there is a translation, by Christopher Maurer, of a lecture which the poet [...]

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