Lorca says,

Write 'storm' on the towers, and don't choose

clear pools over rain, ah camioneros,

never, never!

Mine's a ruined casa low in the highway,

a yard's wild overgrowth;

tiles after the heat spill over me at times like ivy.

Language betrays

If you sequester groves under the netting

(Sant Déu!), make space deep for Moroccan suns,

at least

Palms look rusty this side of white-graped mountains

where I'm led, & the farmers mean

of course, to make lusty parcelas feel the jagged teeth, too. Again,

gardens on the coast—all a mirage

Sultan

of god recedes from where I lean

Between steppes and mounds, steadying to the passes or

white-washed tombs

I can be found

Storm! storm! Olivo of desire or

piscinas: take paradise as it comes, real or not

Or if not, bust the dams and shoot at the devil yourself—

Sierras thru the heat is

nearer to me!, with clouds the odd relief. Three

shades, greenest of the date, one ficus green, & that

of dry villages, and then the hills, again—again, all illusion!

But take each as it comes

One churchtower, two separate at the bridge to find me

but learn to doubt them, too

enlarge their hate beyond words

I know the mists will enclose, & the white coast

in a dream Look,

African winds make an olympus of almost nothing,

and springs between boulders

trickling to my feet