There is one street-light in
the twenty mile stretch violet kryptonite.
We are walking three
in a row wax idols as earth melts to garnets.
I am beat-boxing (no one would
believe this) the Bronx ubiquitous.
The others are rapping something
by an emcee from São Paulo dead
the year before the claim suicide.
The newspapers lie dark
victims abbreviated. Hemispheric
history slithers through capillaries.
We stop at Rodrigo’s house.
The gate squeaks a gaunt black
chicken runs into the peony bed.
The others peck discarded
carcasses in piles. Their
Overripe grapes are offered in a blue bowl.
There is only hot water but it barely stings.
He smirks used to power awry.
There is a debate on television.
They will vote for a new
poor a worker from the northeast.
They’ll repair the roof.
All else weak subterranean termites swell.
The road has become muddy.
Our flip-flops sink stick the flesh
in that ground rotten stacked easily mush.
We stretch in the white room.
Limber as octopi wild adulterous
we have learned to kill with limbs.
My Mets cap dangles on a hook.
Our prayers answered
—from Rattle #31, Summer 2009
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