I feel like I’ve been pulled from my field
like a weed.
Erik Axel Karlfeldt
Honduras grows darks and dawns in Palestine,
nothing gives up my clockwise spindles.
I tried to cure my sleeplessness with cabalas,
but I discovered a bubbling in my blood.
Veins are thickets within the body,
seedtime singing in the abdomen
and branching out centuries, underneath at the root.
A migrant heart is also an astrolabe
and separates the reds out from DNA and rage.
My lineage is insomnia. It resists exile.
No one sleeps if Bethlehem shines in the sun.