Mother fingers in the mud. Mother begging bowl.

The just man followed then his angel guide
Where he strode on the black highway, hulking and bright;
But a wild grief in his wife’s bosom cried,

It happens like this: a kind of lethargy,
In my ears the sound of a clock chiming,
Thunder fading in the distance.

All is despoiled, abandoned, sold;
Death’s wing has swept the sky of color;
All’s eaten by a hungry dolor.

Our souls spore-borne
Heart-shaped gametophytes

enters the dream
like an octopus floating
in its own ink.

Besides coffee
they plant angels
in my country.

one cup of enraged water
a fry of conquistador helmets
three Jesuit onions

In the sixty-three years
I have lived
some instants are electric:

The earth locks up the truth about life
even though the blood tells moody lies
when, like the smooth afternoon sea,