michael hogan (July 14,1943 / Newport, Rhode Island)

It is the time of the jacaranda
when streets are violet carpets
and venders call "Hay elotes! " in the early evening.
No reason to think this could not last forever
this interval
between burning buses and tortured death
this space in the calendar
when the earth breathes and every tree
shines with its own inner light.

When darkness comes we retreat behind walls.
We hear the staccato bursts of machine guns
muffled thumps of grenades
and interminable screams of sirens
as silent victims are carried down the Periferico
to Hospital Civil.

But then morning again.
Crystalline dew on grass and the privets,
a florescence of roses
splash of old fountains in gardens and a rooster's call.
Heedlessly it all returns, this sweet singular life,
the bougainvillea's bracts of burgundy and tangerine
and the copper flash in the beak of a crow
as he carries a spent cartridge
home to his hidden nest.