and we are all cynics. the skinny mexican who thinks that his last name is best.
holds a candle in his hand, never seeing the dark.
it's his way of dealing with the dead
or the trivial.
the meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall...
the impassive stones that recieve and return so many echoes,
what groan's of over-fed or half-starved who fall sunstruck or in fits,
what living and burried speech is always vibrating here.
and roll head over heels and tangle my hair in wisps.