I went from market to market for years, because Mexico is in its markets
– Pablo Neruda
inhale
fried pig skin
peppers
tortillas
dirt
car tires cigarette smoke
dry wood
violin strings
fresh paint
concrete dust
exhale
when did my hands get so many wrinkles?
why is the mountain so violent toward the clouds?
how did that dog get on top of that building?
what does my cock look like to the man in the urinal next to me?
reflection in a window
i am
at least
until i
turn away