(about 1995)
For you it was thick;
thick with the stench
of garbage-waste
in the sordid streets.
Whose fallen limbs
crunched under your feet?
Or not,
yet scratchy sand
and sharp cactus
were your tears.
For me it is thick;
thick with the inhaling
rise of tobacco
from my brother's breath.
In season, fallen limbs
from an oak
crunch under my feet
here; my stomach knots
and lungs rebel
bringing tears.
When I die there will be air.
