And a country slaps over on itself as the fatted pan heats, half bubbling half spitting its middle oozing, the diced and julienned facing off,

You’re not half the artist he is, his work hanging, as you well know, in world-ranked museums of modern art not to mention that gallery

Some skincare people tried to bottle it once, the scent of that road to the beach, the essence of privilege breezing past toil, that heady

Would they come back to life a hundred times,  for you to do the same again… No God warned you to cover your tracks, pull that

The accident has made of me your old bike, beloved &         only ride, gear shifts unsteady, occasional tension spoke requiring realignment, night lighting, bell clear

Claim this feather call, colloid of song. If cackle were caw or whistle a taunt; if strutting had a sound, if pleading a peep. Listen.

Roughly translated, it means a smoke pot, burning red like gold. Then many ways to say greatness and forgiveness, witness as a goat is sacrificed

For those who take our midnight calls who cry who seek our voice in the dark who imagine who create who connect who listen who

The youngest know. They know boot crunch from tank whir, missile whistle from rocket whine. They can count seconds to boom and brazen light bursts,

Vowels in the trickle of a fountain, chasing mosquitoes over a fake pond: ‘A’, ‘E’, ‘AA’, ‘EE’, ‘EI’, ‘IJ’, ‘UI’… Bueno. De nuevo. The low