1.
And here the sun comes again!
The cruel champion with his whips and alarms,
his chains of ringing bells
that drive all the colors to their own work.

Outside these walls a murder of crows
is protesting the slaughter
of their obscure brother Darkness. He is beaten and weak and
can't speak English, always kneeling to the luminescence,
always turning over White Center.

2.
And Sol, the poor author, he writes me all wrong;
drafting me everyday in these same tired acts;
giving me no lines in his bleak telenovela.
I see what he has written
in my broken-glass cut hands,
on the tired face of my brother sleeping across this room,
dreaming of the constant south and his babies.

3.
I stare at the clay red tiles of the dish room floor and I see
a sunset.
Blue oven cleaner gleams in channels.
On the horizon there are garbage auroras
of ricotta and wet bread, a fork and three spoons—
all are falling
in streams of blonde grease,
heading towards the valley of the drain.