after Lorca
Jon Cone

Don't bring oranges.

Bring feathers from
an iron palace.

Where bones of blood
stagger under a full moon,
forget your hunger.

Don't bring oranges.

Fetch straw from
the lung of your hollow purse,
where stones ring like bells.

Set out on your
broken horse
and its wings of cold fire.

And your mouth locked
in the pose of a quiet ecstatic,
seeking cool green fruit.

Let there be no mention
of orange