Mexican Produce Poem by michael hogan

The coyotes at dawn
are mourners at an Irish wake
and the burros honk and squeal
like landlocked geese.
A blind man living here
would have visions on the landscape of his brain
of stars marching across the plowed field
and horses lapping moonlight at their trough.

I go out beneath cold stars
with their redundant infinities.
To the east I hear the lonely chant
of the Nogales freight
bringing mangoes, tangerines
to the pale cities of the North.
Those that bite into that fruit
have the noisy dust of starlight
trickling down their chins.