The Mexican Quilt

The window’s drape of rain makes you uneasy.
What’s sewn unravels, scrambles. Done’s 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 d’i-
dentité so logy, vague as passion.
In uncertain light, something here is sleazy.

The window’s drape of rain assures: He’s he.
You’re you. The aztec rickrack, angled suns?
The tattered stone-blue patch makes you uneasy.

To pray to Quetzalcoatl isn’t easy:
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
The night’s 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 window’s melting, sleazy.