There is a bitter root

Somewhere in this house is (should be) a hardback first edition (foxed) City Lights pocketbook of the selected poems of Federico Garcia Lorca.

I carried it to Spain and laid it on his desk in his home in town. My tour had to wait for the private visit of a famous bullfighter.

And I had a book dealer and leather worker who made journals cuz he also made paper make a cover for it of Spanish leather.

And I can’t find it.

I’m going to take down my big thick Collected and read every sad poem I can find. Which might take a while. But I have plenty of whiskey and cigarettes.

Ay! Mi precioso libro! Nunca volveremos a Granada en el tiempo de las flores naranjas.