From the book:
day of the dead
after the painting by Diego Rivera
looking back
I cannot understand
on such a day as that
why we were the only ones
with tequila on our lips
you
lovely in black dress
the brooch
I bought for you
in Juarez
the month the butterflies returned
me in hat and tie
both a color
you said reminded you
of marigolds you placed on your mothers alter
I nodded along to the music
which I believe you took as a sign that I agreed
you wanted to go to the celebration
because of a sense of tradition and honor
I just wanted to get drunk and
watch an ocean of skulls flow by
making up stories
for every one of the faces
that hid behind them
sonnet 1
the woodshed door was secured
with a drift pin ran through a pair of eyes
he had the logs split and stacked by July
December should see wood well cured
won’t need it sooner unless surprised
by an early winter—which he heard
from guy at the feed store who was sure
would happen if you were to go by the skies
the Inuit say they are not as they were
the stars lately seem to track different lines
the seal the bear the snows practically cry
but man ignores any suggestion for a cure
having no answers he shouldered a bag of grain
and surely felt older than when he came in
Nocturne and other Poems
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