In a barren landscape

You stand with neck aflame

Between pyramid-like hills

And weird skeletal figures

A premonition of wars

In which Europe entire

Would burn. Spain ignited

The flames and Dali saw

And early felt the heat

Of Fascism’s scorching fire.

But change the focus,

Look at those weird figures:

Flayed, deformed, propped

By crutches ‘neath phallic

Protrusions in their backs.

Our minds hold secrets

Freud once said like

Drawers hidden deep within.

These drawers are not hidden

But their contents are invisible

Two decades had passed

Since Dali’s giraffe first burned

And one since Europe’s fires

Were doused. I was callow

Seeing it for the first time

Confused by the torrent

Of emotions those images

Spawned in me. Wonder

Dread and awe shivered

Up and down my spine

Time has passed

Fifty years and more.

I still recall that twilit

Scene, the desert sky

And Dali’s other symbols

Melting clocks and bloated lips

Lobster phones and chests

Of drawers; and a book on

Surrealism aptly titled

Keep the Giraffe Burning.