Jaundice Grove

 

Relapsing dream,

nest of flowering gold

and my hands at its center.

 

Blood leaving the face,

old eyes blind from starstaring.

 

Those aren’t yellow aspens

on the mountain but fireflies

 

held at call,

waiting for the song

to resume.

 

 

 

(a ‘translation’ / erasure / repair of a Lorca poem…)

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