The Good Night and Good Morning of Federico Garcia Lorca

He knew he was asleep and was dreaming 
 Of a beautiful poem. It seemed to be singing 
 Itself in the night, and he woke 
In a bed in a room in an old hotel 
 And lay there, hearing the song go on 
 Though he could see the shape 
Of his empty shirt on the straight chair 
 And his empty shoes on the patch of carpet 
 Made light, half by the moon 
And half by the gray beginning 
 Of dawn. He could see the silhouette 
 Of his own hand against the window shade 
Like a flower, open and waiting. He smiled 
 At the foolishness of loving his own poem 
 In his own dream, of accepting praise 
From his own shadow. But his mind's eye 
 Kept seeing that poem and his real ear 
 Kept hearing that same song. It came from the street 
Under his window, and before he knew why, 
 He was out of bed and shivering his way 
 Into what were some of his clothes 
And one of his shoes and stumbling 
 Into the hall and down the unlighted stairs 
 And through the lobby (where the clerk was dreaming
Something else), through the stubbornly locked door 
 And along the sidewalk to the curb where the singer 
 Was sweeping trash and leaves along the gutter 
With his slow broom, who now stopped, his mouth 
 Open to gape at an apparition 
 Holding a scrap of paper up to his face 
And begging him to read aloud. The sweeper whispered 
 He couldn't read. And Lorca took him 
 Into his arms and kissed him and kissed 
The morning air, now stirring what was left 
 Of the leaves overhead, and went limping back 
 Through a door that stood wide open 
And a grand lobby and up the stairs into bed 
 To lie there stark awake as sleeplessly 
 As a poet who'd been told he was immortal.