to give dreams their due
lest they come back as witches
a gang of wild boars
in a mad flight
leaping
across rooftops
as seen from below
a seaport in the old style
looping roads
that meet themselves
& never any lack of moonlight
we call it Killer's Cove
out on the pier a lone cantina
long burnt-out but standing
here tired killers turn contemplative
who have their mansions in the hills
but do their drinking down below
talking shop in tired voices
tired killers three drinks shy of Tula
& every night quiet as expected death…
blowing smoke into our mezcals
some god is blowing fog across the sea
sunset calms the twitching hand
shopkeeper's turned curandero
peddles shrunken heads now with a smile
he knows what god has done the shrinking
but that knowledge costs you extra
the climate lays you out
& still I stiffen
bent back held up on a chain of iron vertebrae
(wait, that one's no dream)
tough guy idling to the tune of tug boats
what is it—just a lapse of attention
the result: my cock betrays me
impregnated the town whore
was made king
& quickly learned
that kingship is to be avoided
like winter & like wine