Parading

& so I / was wrong. Nothing dies. It comes back as the old farmer,

Love is a word another kind of open—

what isn’t burning?

Bring the cup of horchata, the trays of pineapple

I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.

A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Day of automatic altars. Day we tip

may you kiss

like a quiet happiness that comes

You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look