I-37
for my Hyperion


i. Eyelids
Ajar. Tar. Tar seethes
Into asphalt wounds. Wonderland never
Appeared so thawed. Rueful equilibrium!
Appease me, now, hours. For soon, I’ll soak these
Tattered toes in gentle buckets of
Milk so white, the fur of doves will emerge
Goat-like and inveterately doomed.


ii. Faith
And the clouds have all curdled. Testaments:
Traffic gnarls. Exposes jagged rows of
Metal. Casualties so contorted and
Impatient—entire jowls serrate, separate.


iii. Downtown San Anto
To the beat of aluminum alloy beasts,
Jaundiced eye sockets twitter. Attachments.
Allowances. Barbados and pajaritos!
Anxieties toss cakes of silence beneath tire treads;
My ardor for you is explicit.
Ay, monarca wings and 5 am unrequited clutching!


iv. Accordions
Resolve enigmas among these odd clots of clouds.
I-37, I favor pechos festooned with blooms
of xoloizcuintlis, Spook Light cicatrizes.
In las palmas, I ascend to summer and reconcile
the stars. Incurably, I carry away the sun.