Entwine a mesquite. Surreptitious
embrace, potato vine and an eyelash—
(I wished for you. I did.)
Stunned, your turgid loops rile
whooping Cranes. Venting
Thistly neckbone suspicions!
To pace and pause, the rigor of
so furtively happening upon your
ventricle of a leaf. This sweet vine harnesses.
It chides. Chokes. Climbs. And I’m
Imposing implausibility, now.
Juddering, halted growth!
From here, the potato vine world is
Ungainly, untrimmed. Friction is a pebble
Reciprocating for the improvement of
Gravity and a slack kidney
(I fear it will not heal).
Fathom pelvises and viboras, wobbly
Helixes, and adept spines.
Kindling is the mindlessness of
forgetting shit (street names
and lists), fodder of recuerdos,
Foolish fuel, rambunctious neurons,
a tangle of dendrites and oily, jolly kites
amid Nino huffs and a Eucalyptus tree
that has lost its grip—
Elegance of condors and night trains,
Elegance of unflustered swine and tortillas
(You’re at the bars, and I have not slept.)