Sycamore Trees
A cough surfaces through the mouth.
Immobile flight through a black enormous sky….
Daydreams, yellow and royal kiosks rotting
By the pier. The pigeons’ powder glow rose.
My room is a tollgate; swarms with distorted
Anatomy and flat, striped faces, air scented with cherry.
Mexico isn’t final. Mexico is not a passage
Through which I journey into green, secret sobbing.
When she curls in the corner, her hollow eyes
Mean everything is thinned by heat.
I want to ask her something, like a thread
I read through the pages of a book.
Horses ride the sky, their hooves touch the terrible air.
I will see you in the branches of the sycamore trees.
