S an M iguel B order G ate P avilion What the bootlegger whistles to the crosses on his road
Card table bowing in a heat
The mayor of this gathering’s face Might be His phosphorescent belt buckle—vaguely Parallelogrammic borders of a home state Returning fire to the sun— In the blaze of this hour mistakable For younger soldiers prairie dogging in & out of Tahoes black & Idle on the bounds Of an insinuated gate
But riddled through with timelines He makes me hold the yarn Of an excavated doll That’s what shaking hands with his hands Is like He asks in Spanish if I’ll carry something for him
Across he meant I wasn’t brave I was slow I didn’t lay down or duck When the guns came out I was putting your sister’s cigarettes in the microwave To see if they would light & helping her clean up After the party
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