huarache

the desert is nothing without the ampersands
fruits buzz like flies around a solemn head

a fuzzy impressionist’s attempt at painting
corpus christi: telephone calls in the a.m.

blood letters and chipped wood
make your little sister ask for you

wind and the inquiet archaicness
swimming down the stream

nothing has been easier than
smelling and pinpointing the motions

super free, I feel
let loose on my own pores

a burned souvenir on your huarache sandals
or songs and documentary films about mountains

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