Chichen Itza, in my imagination
Because I am not practical, I have the skin of an anvil
that has spent its life yearning for caress. Inside the body
I am wobbly. I cannot tell when a puncture reaches in
and tickles the atoms of the heart. Sometimes
a pump bring the gods my favor.
Or the yellow strikes falling on the gentle floor are confused,
beginning to rustle each other out of their drifting fences.
All the hearkenings I have known have been distended by fog
and the waves’ crossing the perimeter at night.
I have no idea yet if I like this, but I couldn’t put it away and sleep. One pup’s downstairs in her crate, one pup’s curled against me, and our kitty is giving me his displeased look. Now they can be more happy.