So many have died or killed to get this far,
I act like I have too. Or perhaps I have—
had journeys sealed with sacrifice:
those motorbikes on airport roads,
those bodies at velocity,
or does murder come later with a man and a flag
who tilts his christs and his chainsaws at you,
wields round numbers into the superabundance
to fecund it with rattle-eyed prophets,
flapping and cawing across the monoculture.
Everyone has their horsemen here.
New braves drag booty and corralled men
to harvest by the supertankers,
fairy-lit on the south sea, as hawkers launch
glittering parachutes for the tourists dying to stay.
Down on the sand, a cracked-out Virgílio
mumbles to his Ícaro of defect and excess
in love, of fingers worn against the rock
that swells against the light and says “I am paradise”.
In a French Maizefield
For the Maya, we are of the same flesh,
wrapped tight within our layers of skin.
I stood between their rows of hidden gold,
those teeth of summer, my brothers, I felt
my eyes adjust to sun filtered through their light
and raised my arms among that clump
of dancers. I wondered if this was what
true permanence would feel like, as we
bent and swayed and leant in the wayward rags
of a hurricane blowing out on this side of the Atlantic.