He knew he was asleep and was dreaming
    Of a beautiful poem. It seemed to be singing
        Itself in the night, and he woke
In a bed in a room in an old hotel
    And lay there, hearing the song go on
        Though he could see the shape
Of his empty shirt on the straight chair
    And his empty shoes on the patch of carpet
        Made light, half by the moon
And half by the gray beginning
    Of dawn. He could see the silhouette
        Of his own hand against the window shade
Like a flower, open and waiting. He smiled
    At the foolishness of loving his own poem
        In his own dream, of accepting praise
From his own shadow. But his mind's eye
    Kept seeing that poem and his real ear
        Kept hearing that same song. It came from the street
Under his window, and before he knew why,
    He was out of bed and shivering his way
        Into what were some of his clothes
And one of his shoes and stumbling
    Into the hall and down the unlighted stairs
        And through the lobby (where the clerk was dreaming
Something else), through the stubbornly locked door
    And along the sidewalk to the curb where the singer
        Was sweeping trash and leaves along the gutter
With his slow broom, who now stopped, his mouth
    Open to gape at an apparition
        Holding a scrap of paper up to his face
And begging him to read aloud. The sweeper whispered
    He couldn't read. And Lorca took him
        Into his arms and kissed him and kissed
The morning air, now stirring what was left
    Of the leaves overhead, and went limping back
        Through a door that stood wide open
And a grand lobby and up the stairs into bed
    To lie there stark awake as sleeplessly
        As a poet who'd been told he was immortal.