Sand over the brisk towel the wind.

                                    Sand over the shaved heart the poem of blood.

                                    Sand shoveled over your face the risen sun scratching.

                                                            The rain,

                                    the children listening to your going away footsteps.

                                    All cities that ever mattered

                                    returning like a leaf lost in a head of smooth stone.

                                    Thigh of Christendom, boundairies of iron.

                                    Young crystal virgin thigh.

                                    Dark the sand my mother knows its opiates.

                                    Dark the crystal gun above the tree’s white plume.

                                    The bugle blows its hierarchic call, my mother playing.

                                    She moves among the children, a ball along a dream,








                        The Doorstep



                                    In every voice heard

                                    from my room through the walls,

                                    in every fighting voice,

                                                every voice that stands straight


                                    in every one I fumble with my body.

                                    Every word lights up that

                                                doubling sky bent

                                    over nine steps steeped naked.

                                    In every word lilacs hurt the grain,

                                    grain that gelatinizes the plants which

                                                            softly limit

                                    the time


                                    in the mustache filled with ground.


                                    it begins with mice,

                                    with the scuttling footsteps over

                                                            the light.


                                    this is the same.

                                    My neighbors fight, their voices limited

                                    by the doorstep I encounter

                                                            when I write.







                        They Come From The River



                                    Two hummingbirds burnt into night.

                                    Two Mexican hummingbirds mathematical Ones.



                                    They come by train the lovers erect stones.

                                    They come by limits the eyebrows of hate.



                                    The Mexican hummingbirds,

                                    the two cousins of the sun feed on the yellow of time.



                                    The sun gently clasps his hands,

                                    deep in his pocket a river of birds surges.



                                    A burning boat and Man, we move up

                                    against the thickest word which is God.



                                    The nopal is a sonnet I write when I kiss you.

                                    Light travels the entrails of the nopal grown white.



                                    My birds of blood, blond now,

                                    as a child I raised your symmetry toward the roads,

                                    I brought you bracelets.



                                    My Mexican blond birds held the dagger of perdition.

                                    Which way is the Indian road I covered in wine?



                                    Sentries, humming in the mirror, let us go home.

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