A clear picture
of a tree emerges out of paper
and graphite and ash;
it is a sprout between fractures
in the waterless desert,
where agave farmers search
for babies to, one day, harvest.
The dry flat land is drunk with us.
She makes no sense,
in her dry meandering humor,
that raspy laugh, a whisky giggle,
she burns our brains
and begs us to prettify her.
We stuff our bottles with rags,
and wait and wait
and wait
our legs a lotus, one on top
of the other;
we wait,
drunk,
our breath heavy
ready
for anything to show up,
anything, at all, to burn.
Whisky again. She speaks
to me: I wanna do bad things
with you.
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