I don’t call it sleep anymore.
I’ll risk losing something new instead—like you lost your rosen moon, shook it loose.
But sometimes when I get my horns in a thing—
a wonder, a grief or a line of her—it is a sticky and ruined
fruit to unfasten from,despite my trembling.
Let me call my anxiety, desire, then.
Let me call it, a garden.Maybe this is what Lorca meant
when he said, verde que te quiero verde—because when the shade of night comes,
I am a field of it, of any worry ready to flower in my chest.
Now I am known on my Facebook page for starting a Sunday with a humanist (athiest?) message or challenge from the likes of Chris Hitchens, Bertrand Russell or Ingersoll and the ilk but today we’ll start with a pome . . .really because it mentions the towering force that was the elemental Frederico Garcia Lorca
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