Yerma

She kills me with her being, on stretched out sunny days, dances like a fallen queen, talks of seeing, an artist bright and unfazed, called Jennifer Frean, who never left her street, tho' she traveled many ways, a young woman beat, that leaves me careening, hearing a midnight train, when love like Lorca's weaving, sends part of me reeling, falling like the rain, on St Anthony's quay, an empty feeling seeking, morning cafe' warmth and cakes, pain of the ladron stealing, across my face.