Dune grass ticking on a blue-jeaned leg,
he’s left the pace mined from unloading
boxcars to the tide-line’s broken shells,
stepped inside a whispering current
while so many machete through green,
greasing our slide into a dark cabaret.
Assigned scripts pinned between ribs
as dust circles the veins of our eyes.
He gnaws through brick laid by
grandfathers and father, various
dialects like beads drying on his tongue.
He’s ready to river gems past the monotone
inhaled, past the monotone mined
from the cubicles built by white-eyes.
Toxins dissolving the pearls dispensed,
he senses a wave building, carrying
hot debris and bred angers,
statues and columns melting
inside black rains as chaos gains volume.
Fingering the agates in a pocket, he
wonders if he could sense their
gathered light, then translate
it into colors brushed onto the canvas
filling via spine-fed brushstrokes, easel
just visible through that cabin window,
journal on the table pulsing rivulets
of dawn thoughts. Self-portrait growing,
his face reflected on glass as the incoming tide
feeds the shoreline background. Clouds,
yes, on the horizon as he speaks
the Spanish word for storm, borrasca
for rain, lluvia.
Borrasca y Lluvia