Issue 226, Fall 2018
So here I go in the famous Spanish slowness.
Clouds advance in their relentless armada—
(Thornton Wilder once said it takes a year
to get a letter from Spain). Soon, it will be time
for us to start a little late, Aloysi will flip
the switches for the circuit breakers. The cathedral
will be lit. The Metro will rumble. The poor
will line up for their bags of food. The masses
will pray and shout into their cell phones,
waiting for their handout. Aloysi will preach,
the bishop will sing, and I’ll hold out
the money plate. Indefinitely, here, I belong.
Earth floats, cantilevered, and my bishop’s eye,
dead, reddens, might be cut out, does not track,
and floats in the world now like part of a mobile.