The Mexican sun is a crazy star
With an untamed whirling mane
And the maddest, laughing eyes
The most beautiful part of any flower
To my eye, a burning calyx.
Neck-lace
Is an ugly word
Hard and soft in all the wrong places
Chopped loudly from the throats
Of wandering vendors –
They follow, expectant faces
Like boats I tow behind me.
This sun and these words,
Things that bite and sting,
This skin that burns:
An afternoon in all it’s complicity.
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