And now I must take care
not to run away with myself
and leave you (rotten) sitting (sun burnt)
on this pueblo porch; fo your face
is made of
dried out hymen, easily split
(like a morning grape) to let your jam-like juices
fill up the arid cracks in y our
orange moon-cheeks.

Craters; cantankerous and
mock-fish forlorn, a face
that pleads sympathy without
antiquity;

the scars
are there, but they are not
from pueblo hearts, just
corn-husk apache hands and
The over-eager oil marks of a
boy
who has just begun.

But I doubt
you would dance with me in the
field, feet skyclad and
nourishing the earth as my souls
tear like paper machete.
You seem quite
content
to suck the apathy out of
sweet dried apricots
and to lick
the splinters from your arms.

I will
help you milk the cows
(especially Olympe with her
one askew eye)
but you will have to
churn your own butter.

And if Uncle Raymond knew
what I'd been doing in the field, he might
pat you on the head and send
me, his former favorite,
to pick up after a trail of
bread crumbs.