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Toledo 

Come, sir, won’t you walk with me among 
The columns growing upward into vaults 
That hide the night until the day has gone? 

Watch with me the black flames who gather 
To await the march; they speak among themselves 
With ringed eyes but have nothing to say to me. 

We approach the sacristy. (May I wear 
My shoes? The stone’s so cold.) Open wide 
The heavy gates of the room where Peter weeps. 

Now, my dear Greek, answer me this: For whom 
Did you weep that you could paint how it would be
To sleep, to say, “I know not the man”? 

No, no answer now. Quickly, then, 
The outer doors before three weights descend 
Upon us: columns, vaults, and hidden night. 

Barcelona 

Round and pointed spaces 
Hold the piped tunes 
That follow one another 
Then fold back upon themselves. 

Outside, the sea rains upon the streets,
Which return the water to the sea. 

At home, the tops of the mountains
Will have become red again 
While these contrapuntal lines 
Rub like cats against 
The round and pointed spaces.

León 

Strong ribs cross the vault 
            to meet behind the pillar 
            in the center place. 

Two arches 
            which form lower borders of the vault 
            issue from the pillar
            like equal stalks of water curving from twin pipes,
            or wings poised above the body for straight flight. 

If I could sit here long enough 
            to silence all the inner voices, 
            holding this scene in precise, 
            pillar-centered perspective, 
            do you suppose chorales of truth and wisdom
            would issue with the water and the wings
            to flood and fly over me? 

As it is, small syllables and brief tones 
            appear like white wings 
            flashing through darker winds.