—after Orozco
Unbidden, crimson dervishes or
infernos of panicked
hats unfurling like virgins above
us.
His cosmetic edges itch evil.
His belly churns holocausts. His
eyes
are live ammo.
Hoisted without leg irons, his
scraped hands and knees
bleed geraniums.
The moon blooms like a noble
persimmon in the center
of the universe.
He’s higher than the devil’s
bread knife.
He’s a sorcerer’s bracelet,
invasively gleaming.
While you sleep, he combusts,
becomes an overturned symphony
orchestra.
A scatter of red doves. Eve’s
apple. The chaste rage
of archangels.
Give him planets to consume. A
cobra’s
wine glass to drink from.
His heart does not flinch from
the Holy of
Holies.
He blasphemes. He meditates
till his foreshortened frame’s
molten lava.
A tropical bird’s nest.
Hegemony’s aurora.
When you wake in the celibate
dark,
he is licking the ash
from your belly. Your broken
lips.
He must leave you, descending mud
steps
with his hatchets of damage.
Bombardments ongoing,
he’s forever a counterpoint of
conflagration,
tolling fiery roses, explosions
of
bells.
