Scribbling in the places of naptime—drooling, stealing—
Waiting for my Mexican uncle to come home
And cook me devil shrimp—
Smoking out of tinfoil next to the canal—
Where a tree without any roots spreads across the fields—
Where there are angels there,
And entire castles woven out of the cypress—
And a thousand other areas stolen by the ways the branches
Bow—hiding the trellises of conquistadors—they with
Their zink crosses painted blue—
Stuck in the reservoirs where a thousand automobiles should
Rust—tinkering with the folklore of alligators,
And the silent plains—passengers of a thousand skeletons—
And the clocks only the daylight of the sky—
Wandering off a ways—looking for a sanctuary faster than itself.
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