Garth Martens

Watching a dancer near the river Darro, I wake, in a cave, just this once. He rises with the dust, hard pace, pillared wave, as overhead whitewashed earth flakes in metered strokes. Bearing cold- shouldered luminescence, clack of flecos, enters an emptied-out umber-lit span, far-eyed, intent, champing. Bites his epaulette. Wields a hammer of the inner ear, builds rivalry, a device, a birthplace. Wasted by discipline, this figure whose damage, whose nightworld