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78 The World That Lightning Makes Under an upside-down and sooty ocean, I steer through summer thunder and the straight prose of rain. A dashboard voice from Washington talks war in Lebanon . . . Bursting like rocketry, a scar of fire slashes down the sky. It noons the night and shocks me to a crawl. My car’s a shelter under siege. The mean buttons of approaching headlights change into the always searching always aiming eyes of condors. The lashing rainfall wails in Arabic for this Guernica in Beirut . . . I think of Lorca who believed the lightning-worlds of love and poetry could have no enemies. He never dreamed of lightning-chevrons on black shirts, lightning-wars and lightning-zigzags crayoned on a map that sparked a war that scarred a generation . . . This generation’s condors thunder on another 79 Spain. The rain’s a litany of Lorcas bulldozed into pits. The world from Washington is no one’s and the world’s. Viva la muerte! ...

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