Lorca, you have fallen asleep with a telephone ringing in your hair

At the foot of a day carved in marble,

And Sr. Lorca, doesn’t your halo pour into the Senate’s shirt sleeves and into its servants’ quarters

The labia seen by sailors in their dreams since before the Greeks?

When the rock took the opportunity to lift the lid off the pot to peruse the cookings,

And your ass cheeks were accompliced by the soup with a charming nonchalance,

Did your heart go fishing for a battery at the bottom of your suitcase

And your Madonnas carry their packagings flowing into the wind for profit?

Your tombstone whispers to me in my waking dreams.

“Take me to be weighed for postage,” it says.

But during these grand nights of octopus ink the meter is banished, and the scale screams off like a banshee.

You say “The pool players serve you the Queen’s ice cream;

Have you never known the pleasures of the morning?”

And the green sea runs its tongue across your neck, as over the glue on an expired stamp.