Poems are mis amigos.

They align the tombstones like vertebrae in a starry spine. They reside in the cubby
holes of my corrugated heart.

I am no naive stepbrother, nor cartoon gravedigger. Clusters of lichen fringe my neck. I
am back from a trip with a permission slip to go on being rested. Sleep O flame that
flickers.

Poems have sacked another city, mine. I’d give up the plot of my life for one more day
washing animals.

For you, amigo, I’d become the bones inside a wheel.