Some near-Lorca quality light in number 78 of The Greensboro Review:

Jim Peterson's "Cup" follows a daydream on a stolen "Entrance" sign as it "conjure[s] a gate, a grill / of metal bars pulled back from a path // leading over grass and sand to a body / of water capturing sunlight in a million / disappearing cups."

Katherine Bode-Lang sees "the sun a flattened penny in the sky, / hot as the iron tracks just after the train." (It's a rainy day, "September in the East," so.) Credible tactile and otherwise sensory data elsewhere in the poem: a path "sticky / with wet maple leaves," and the smell of leaves wet in summer storms that the speaker and the absent addressee "came to think of ... as water."