after "Arbole, Arbole . . ." by Federico Garcia Lorca:
Sol, Sol . . .
Sun, sun
hot and gold.
The orc with the ivories
is slow-riding breakers.
The spray, gassy and whetted,
lures him behind the swell.
Surge howlers winked by
on balearic backbones,
with cockled cream ribbons
and high-tossed domes.
“Fly Barracuda, transvesta.”
The orc skates down the tube.
Three steam trumpets wailed,
tappets for the knell,
with ribbons pearling round oysters
and bells of marine copper.
“Fly Anemone, dauphina.”
The orc beams off the curl.
When the fathom had glimpsed
high noon, with ambered gills,
a fish plum sailed by, sharing
drift and sea palm from the drench.
“Fly Manatee, flamingo.”
And the orc bites on air drums.
The orc with the ivories
spins helixing spirals
with the green dice of the spray
snake eyes in his dust.
Sun, sun
hot and gold.
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