LABYRINTH

The night, music and stars began to play a role in my painting.

—Joan Miro

While the Luftwaffe dropped bombs at night,

you brushed and rubbed The Constellations

across a pad, sketching the scales of birds.

In the marriage bed your lunar bird,

Pilar, tossed under the constellation

of her hair, climbing ladders into night.

This pine-tree hillside: your canvas, a night

of quavers and clefs. A thread unspooled by the Sunbird,

a girl, connects the runes of your constellations.