noctilucent, you are a femme fatale. ~~ also, from the poem, giacometti's figures come to mind. in fact, he received a project, which was never completed, for a monumental sculpture of a female figure in front of chase manhattan bank skyscraper (designed by master gorden bunshaft).

i think it is hard to mention modern poetry and architecture without mentioning e.e. cummings. Look this one up:

the hours rise up putting off stars and it is dawn into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems.....

not a femme fatale, wayward eyes. i don't know if i am this, however (forgive me, academics, for falling into a hole):

how to be a man (iii-ether)

soaring the spectacle of tan-hide, to the gaping grey,
he unpockets the spangled death-rind of a streaming sky
and beneath which his grace of bird tremors lays out a runway of linoleum cirrostrati
his haze of chestnut hair billows into a dead velveteen fly above

fuddled and unarmed with metaphor, around him wind-cast, inquisitive,
armpit prodding, inhaling the tawny and the honeyed, moistened and padded,
this greater creature of hair and water, skin and air amassed

stirring the sky, he struck out at a light-ray nerve and wavered
stirring the sky, he caught on a silken wire and shivered a near-end
singed and molten, the body turned on itself waxen and knotted
a scar, a boo boo in the firmaments

others look up at the apparently plasmatic skirmish above
as it looks down on itself and at them, electrostatic and growling

and for a more graceful female ascension:

tender your Agency,
removed from nature
by nature tendrills
and in autumn she grows

fingers spelled into wood
brown-history of green-
knew air, wickedness;
Bird broke her sentence
-in thirds

her last tread spent,
shed the planet downwards
from a sigh to vertigo
she grows

"i came" changed time
(glass said "memory"
and glass spoke time )
clambered up into the trees,
the city on its quake of feet

"i came" darkened colour,
autumn of leaves and absences
the roots (oh heavens) moist and
apologetic;

heady, perfumed,
a day like night vined, upwards
as she, unnoticed by cars and watches,
from noise to sound, and from
sound to the chatter of clouds
she grows

does it take six moons to determine when a close encounter is a life-lessening one.

noctilucent, i do not understand all the layers of meanings intended with the two poems you have posted, but the first one seems to be an intense description of rapture. also very surreal. however, the juxtaposition, in my opinion, does not emancipate the emotive power as generously as it could because the distance between two poetic realities is not felt as far apart, at least to me. nevertheless, thank you much for your hospitality. and please excuse me for typing you as femme fatale. i was refering to 'figura' or 'the signified' as i sensed from the previous discussion. now, in order to continue with the concerns you had in relation to the poem by federico garcia lorca, i have not read 'being and time' yet, but i do think about latent violences as well. it seems to me the best we, as modern human beings, can do is to count on rationality, with flexibility. there is a translation of the poem called 'zuo zhuan' by zhuang gong. (http://www.anselm.edu/homepage/athornto/zuozhuan.htm) frankly, i haven't really studied it either, but i think there seems to be a parallel between what you described as 'the harmonic fourfold' and the situation discussed in 'zuo zhuan'.

We passed along an avenue planted with blue breasts
where day no longer differentiated itself from
night except by a comma, and the sardine from the
grasshopper by a scratching hair.

(benjamin peret)

two poetic realities? tsk