Pueblos Desaparecidos

push pull membrane slow to respond
purses like a shocked child's slow moving mouth
O!
torrential exquisite meaty drops on a territory of timpani
countable infinities of tiny monkeys punching keys
the poet's emergent probabilities three be
Solitude, death, and poverty



Seventeen archers string their bows in rows
stand them on the tips of their noses
line up backs together in poses
take two steps forward and Arcade it opens
eighteenth takes their aim and looses
a gust might kill one sure as nooses
or a gander at the wrong goose's



Sister Death comes when she like
drifting into any party with or without an invite
she'll never leave and she's never been alive
her emerald green dress in tatters fails to hide
the glints and reflections of trophies inside:
Every single being who has ever lived and died



In moist and soggy foggy morn
we hear a far-off-nearby foghorn
our depth of field has been shorn
luckily we're not airborne!
no we just stand here on the shore
waiting for the sun and air
to burn off the morning mist
the urge to drown we must resist