(a serenata for Wallace Stevens)
the postcard from the Alhambra never sent
is tinged with rose regrets, perhaps,
a settled aspect to the tinted aqua skies,
the candied rosebud sighs of the Infanta
in fantastic array who wants to play
in the courtyards with the
rose-red day and not
to have her portrait made.
she is just whatever we can say about her anyway:
a mere shading of the perfumed fountains
by whoever feels that way and owns the power
to decree: Segovia never loved su guitarra endlessly-
let the universe weep little stars for the lies
that are told dismantling every siglo de oro,
verilly chided the Princesa
who never could grow old
in that shade of violet.
in a dream I treasured the
distance between sun and sun
and found the yardstick wanting
in translations
per metric dreams within dreams,
the rose fringed skies inadequately portrayed,
the whole of Toledo under indigo clouds.
mary angela douglas 16 november 2013;19 october 2023
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