So you aim a foregone conclusion,
even 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 creatures of this city
scramble through traffic
fleeing the advance of distant lightning.
The faithful, do they have it better
with all that 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 the work abrades rest
from the bodies of scrubbers
while the polished world of uptown glints
and a world of trade agreements are inked
with 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, even now,
like a fine beaded bag in the lamplight.