So you aim a foregone conclusion,
the extinction of our species,
right between our eyes.
Maybe the last mammoth died
with uptown flowers in its belly,
blinking at the the glass towers of Polanco,
Even now, the people of this city
scramble through traffic
fleeing the advance of distant lightning.
The obedient and faithful,
do they have it better,
with all their hope aimed at heaven?
Their eyes on the Lord’s table,
they let this world drip
from their dumb and delicate fingertips.
We know– there is not enough water
to wash us away again.
We toss pail after pail
across the crumpled pavement each morning,
but not one street will be clean by noon.
All night work abrades rest
from the bodies of scrubbers
while the polished world of uptown glints
and a world of trade agreements are inked
in the tincture of peasant bruises.
I’m leaving Mexico at night,
unbelieving, charged with love and fright
for a country, for a city
sparkling below, for now,
like a fine beaded bag in the lamplight.