|The Mexican Quilt
The windows drape of rain makes you
Whats sewn unravels, scrambles. Dones undone.
In a certain light, something here is sleazy,
the pungency immense, the breathing wheezy.
Like trying to read braille with mittens on.
The ill-stitched orchid stripe makes you uneasy,
the loose black underside provokes a crise di-
dentité so logy, vague as passion.
In uncertain light, something here is sleazy.
The windows drape of rain assures: Hes he.
Youre you. The aztec rickrack, angled suns?
The tattered stone-blue patch makes you uneasy.
To pray to Quetzalcoatl isnt easy:
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
The nights black underside might hold off sleazy,
but drapeless day commits to dry and breezy.
What thrives between, what natters at undone.
You haggled in Oaxaca. Yeah, uneasy.
In this odd light, the windows melting, sleazy.