Duende

Not from the throat, said Lorca; but a current
passing as if from the earth, through the soles

of the feet. Sometimes, even the very young
are seized by it when they open their mouths 

to sing; then the voice deepens and colors
alongside of trembling guitars. Waterfalls

pour unstoppable from dark clefts of rock.
Or is it the sound of a heart being rolled

up a hill then hurtling down on the other 
side? I wonder if Sisyphus cried out or sang

under his breath as he pushed eternity 
up to its pinnacle, only for the boulder

to drop without pity back to its sandy
beginnings— Down in the marketplaces

of everyday life, the roosters crow  
and fish thrash in their baskets. Oxen

pull the plow through the earth, which closes 
its seams almost as soon as they're opened.