RULER OF SHADOWS
The hill silhouettes against the red glow;
shimmers in black ice on the way to the airport before dawn,
the unclear path still wet with moon mist.
Our ship descends into humid smog, birds fall silent.
We wince at clashing phantoms
between ignorance and illusion,
and exchange commonsense for Pesos.
The cab driver's dashboard is cluttered by shrine.
A moth comes down off his Goddess,
the dark markings of its wings are tattered.
The bus station beneath clambering stairs,
energized by effervescent servant girls,
revolves in a whirl of trumpeting vehicles.
Peyote eaters, each trailing a dark wisp,
mounting the blue bus for Toluca,
carry chickens and bushel baskets to market.
The bus downshifts in hazy languor,
labors uphill through shadows of the mountain,
rounding bends that we throw off, shrugging.
Cobble stone streets oozing with cow blood,
the last leg of air climbs the market town,
the sky reveals new ruins in the ancient soul.
Birds celebrate from tree to tree, but hush
as clouds pass over like cosmic darkness
that observers mistake for inner light.
Scrub pines sense a passing shadow,
play with colors diffracting into bands.
The warm-bodied prey is dancing between.
We enter a cave down hill on the other side,
a labyrinth of waiters and tables, order rabbit
smothered in gravy, drink crown of the barrel.
Daily goddess, ruler of shadows, calls
and summons all her travel tours and busses
to games of action, but delays at darker flag stops.
Behind the breath is another swell,
behind the broken reflection, the shimmer,
and behind us, the desert, where we stand still.
