Sweets

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, 

torrents, really—

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

turning brownish.

(You’re at the bars, and I have not slept.)