in october, the children of san pedro

ants over my knees and laughter, anybody’s laughter

spilling about, cotton shirt light over our shoulders

a band round my wrist, a spring

fall of water against hot skin, afternoon

twirls like an umbrella in the breeze

bite your straw down, a knee bent

heels knocking lightly, curiously against brick

in window sills we hang, snapping our gum

Waiters and beggars in eternal swing, elbows

charred with daylight and the stinging

cries of children—

red tile and brown eyes, here earth

is purple, and I like coffee beans

flock across mountains, we like iron

grasping windows against thieves and humming

gold patiently with morning—we like iron

fists against our thighs, our joy is absolute

and thunders through the air like music

drums and trumpets and snoring, alcoholics

and their mothers, from the mountains

I spy the eyes of lovers, swooping

over the hills and past the crescent of sky 

they alone see the air, they alone

command it

in my uncles stores the wares

are a continuous ticking, clicking

of nails against glass and puckered

lips, smiles and eyebrows a dog’s

tail wagging, give him a scrap we

are generous.