torres in panama

i.

all city streets are burning,

doesn't matter where or

who stands behind the

fire, shadows licking up night

until the broken windows cast

their own jagged moons.

he doesn't say much,

flying over in the dark;

thin land stretched abridge

all that endlessness on

every side-

his dad, now, that was a war

wasn't it, back summer streets

in newark, twenty years ago

as time wrecks its way,

delicate, sure, small as

the land below. he doesn't

remember that although he thinks

he's supposed to

no se olvide

ii.

now he stands on hidden on a corner

and around him glass is breaking and

fire licks up a hot white moon and in his hands,

the gun is hot, it's always hot, that

doesn't jar him to any sudden

understanding, he just watches and waits

and when it's time, he moves from his

shadow and

he is out on the street.