Nimrod in Hell
asleep in a room with no windows or walls
basted by the city’s voice
from the agora’s fugue one rawdog appears
to stab you with a screwdriver
or crumple your skull with a spade
because of your dialect, politics, face
it’s that other face, the cotton one, wheels
toward shore-of-the-bathers
surrenders to sun
until features, idiom hair burn & peel off
& your shadow version rises from its cot
with a claw where the hand was
to kill Time flying in the palms
with jetties beneath
the creature of your being
momma named you after a king
so you remain for good in this
volley of bats, threat-admixed-with-pleasure
sum rhythm of women beating laundry
power washer roaring on your hovel
all for you, the murderous fist
the assassin’s face like a shovel
La Reconquista
el division
is certain . the cristians
abandon . all intent and the other
hired men had enough
they lose their nerve in this
valley where the castle burns
a sham heaven is all
they defend
if so . then
hoorah for the moors
the bosk smells like sugar . no vaca no cactus
torched earth poses
troubling questions
of what things are in the forest