------------------Permafrost
Matthew Raymond (Bob Dylan in Mexico) A Jacona Prayer I wrote a song on a borrowed guitar. I sang to walls that barely knew my shadow, for I was new to the house and the light was dim. There were crickets crying in empty lots where children played with fire and stared at me as I passed. I spent evenings writing postcards that I sent back to my home at the center of the world. My father cried when they didn't arrive. In the morning, weak trumpets across a dawn of soft footsteps and roosters on rooftops calling out for the light and for their cages. Women in aprons in cool dark salas lighting candles for the Virgen. I stood on those dirt streets and wondered at the horses standing still against the wall for the shade and the dusty faced boys of barrio brick homes and trash-filled creeks. I held my money
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