the mesa is scalding
with summer morning heat
draped like a shawl
across the shoulders
of the hueco
I get up slowly
gingerly
careful of that mess
of a hostel floor
I couldn't live here
such a heat
dries out the bones
--and the soul
parched and cracking--
then the dust comes
through pores
and lungs
to fill the holes

grab a half
smoked cigar from
the ash
don't bother to step
outside
onto the caked,
blooded clay
simply
match flame to tobacco
and inhale
that starched, bitter
smoke
there's dirt on the floor
one room casita
pale green shades
pale green blanket
lemon wallpaper
around a one pane
window
where I can
sit and smoke
and type
watching nonchalantly
all the men
trying to break that
invisible line
across the Rio Grande
they move fast
and quietly
huddling their children
close on the small canoe
with one man at the oar
he only nods
as he rows toward the shore
he has seen many
and many more to come
before his arm can no
longer row
or perhaps his heart
will give way
what a sight
--glorious and true--
skin caked
like the clay
by the sun
the cigar is burnt out
I stomp it to ashes
across the tiled floor
I can't truly see them
that man in the canoe
and those he carries
but imagine
how green that grass
must seem
how green
amongst all
the clay and blood
must be a hell of a thing
to behold
whilst all I try to do
is get away
from it all
as fast and quietly
as possible
and so it seems
all there
is to do is
to keep rowing