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Castanets
Back will go the head with the dark curls
and the foot will stamp:
but now she stoops beneath
her arms, or, frowning, whirls
her skirt to lie out flat on the air
so the breeze in on
our mouths, and the smoke swings:
dry like a thirst the guitar rings.
Across her eyes drunk hair; the flower
that lodged there spins to the ground:
coolly in the barbarous dance
the wrists arch up, and now
the castanets, those fever teeth,
begin to sound:
then, gunshot through a veil,
blow the night suddenly mad with their pelting hail.
Bernard Spencer