What, you ask, made me want to get away?
Things that happened. Or didn¹t - you know how it is.
A dream of wrecked ships across the moon,
The belief, growing into certainty, that I was born
In Fuento Vaqueros in Southern Spain.
Years later, when an old man handed me
a red carnation in the Granada sun
I knew I had followed the right dream.

Have no fear I will forget the qoutidian,
Your beloved particular. Who could imagine
The effect of oranges on a child reared on rock;
What desire is squeezed into her thin hand
Reaching for the home-from-hospital fruit,
the fire in those small dimpled suns?