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The Bitter Distance

 

Above early morning reed tops tiptoe children peer at 

my long black beard of encouraging thought. Hard work 

Aztlan songs drift down the crying shore. All day hard 

luck women pound the long week's laundry just below 

low flying purple dragonflies over the virgin field of 

weed covered graves. Half naked boys smack muddy 

holy water for fat frogs. 

 

In the bitter distance government guns crack and bring 

everyday everyone to a few seconds still. 

 

Sky gazing marguerites wave from the altar bright ridge 

overlooking the lake of the twelve apostles. Pale deer 

drink the holy water of slow motion birds crossing the 

 

Tired living years of race wars, I wait for the bride of 

you in the magenta evening, pencil in hand, worry-

watching breaking twilight fade off tuberoses. 

 

I dream you bend your bodyline over the floating moon 

and drink its cool burning circle. My shadow of manly 

man folds across your silvered back, lust wet, with 

your take-me theme of future children, golden years, 

and mingled dust. Rivers of blood lift our bones into 

ritual dance over the witnessing earth. A dark flight of 

jungle sound passes through our mouth of dreams. We 

cling together at the foot of a terraced mountain with 

skeletons of the Mayan wind as red lights blink above 

the white misty shore, our gentle hiss of hips, and finally 

sleeping like cloud warriors.