Lorca

   Split ears of morning earth green now,
Love and death twisted in tree arms,
   Come love, throw out your nipple
to the teeth of a passing clown.

Spit olive pits at my Lorca,
Give Harlem’s king one spoon,
At four in the never noon.
Scoop out the croaker eyes
   of rose flavored Gypsies
Singing García,
In lost Spain’s
Darkened noon.