Saturday, October 31, 2009


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.)

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