I hear an odd wire vibrate 
against a dark red wood. 

It ripples along, hoarse, 
talks a mountain to pieces. 

All Iberia is elaborate 
in string and lath; 

peninsula of high heels, 
ribbons dancing on the mane, 

black hats horse-parading, 
friar’s lantern honing swords. 

A later moon of Pico de Aneto 
dies in the dust of olive trees. 

A forlorn SAC bomber, tailed, 
falcons its way home silently. 

When a bull is born 
the earth shakes twice, 

and an odd wire vibrates 
against a darker red wood.

— From Sheehan’s collection, This Rare Earth, Lit Pot Press, Inc. (2003); reprinted by permissions of author and publisher

Bio: Thomas F. Sheehan