The man over there
with educated fingers and fast
clouds
around his flag
rolls his shirt sleeves & calls
a taxi from church . . .
His eyeteeth clap like his family
for an encore of southwest earth
wolfed with fever
. . . Skilled and styled to believe
that Moctezuma blood & spirit
. . . are dead, as he pumps
a book through his ears.
Inside his stomach roast
meat (buttered in
philosophy)
makes yellow drops
on his hide overboil down
to his buttons.
Only heavy fur pulls
his head to a pillow
rusting completely overnight
. . . like his prayer.
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