Guatemala
Ruth Yarrow, Seattle, Washington
waking to soft light
on our interior wall—
sun gilds the courtyard
motorbike
over sun-warmed cobblestones
her bosoms jiggle
she slaps rhythm
into her tortillas—
hoofs on cobblestones
monastery:
cascading toward the fountain bouganvillea
poor end of town—
between rusted roof ridges
streams of silver rain
tour guide’s violent tale—
through the shutters, faintly marimbas
Antigua at dusk—
among the cobblestones
glass shards glitter
barefoot in velvet dark
only a whiff of woodsmoke . . .
and smooth cool tiles
No comments:
Post a Comment