VII

a smog-haloed dump truck
spills its guts, and kids in
knock-off Nikes kick
at an empty barrel
a mothering dog walks across
the rubble of a building torn
down to a skeletal level
the metal support wires fray
to my North American and blue set of eyes
like Twizzlers Pull ‘n’ Peel candy
mornings, I drink fruitless juice
among a bounty of sugar addicts
language and citrus-prompted saliva all
over our tongues. These kids
and this fructose out to destroy
make me feel right at home

VIII

Treading saltwater at a beach on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, I’m light like light itself

Back home, a bad man is shooting Floridians and Donald Trump, pants aflame, is becoming real

What I know for sure, riding on a cable car rapidly gaining altitude: I’d rather die by fall than by beast

Predatory men shut their mouths in the chapels, open them wide towards mine on the front steps

Chelsie’s dreams of spiders and mine of a liberating vagueness that doesn’t scar my next days

Chorizo, please, with beans and an arepa, for breakfast and for to feel in place, for to do this in earnest

Vacationing in a summer country where no one could ever know how cold I get

On a leash, harnessed, being dragged too quickly across the calendar

IX

Did you see the pickaxes I packed in my bag to excavate with?
Did you see the paring knives I’d been using at home?
If I sit here long enough up against the sea, all of these sharps will dull
Instead of prying, I will wander these shape-shifting beaches
and fall for cities way out of my league
I’ll take salt and salt and lime juice and lime juice and lime juice in my beer
and ride on motorbike taxis to heights I have no business reaching
What I am asking of life is to be distracted to death
Would you with your eyes, beach glass green, beach glass smooth
notify the doctor that I’ll take salt and lime juice and, best I can, care?