the blue lake

the blue lake was not where we left it


we got no sleep last night,
no one here can dream 
a fascist radio interview 
between detonations and bloody debris.

never once sleeping,
the hungry rose petals live without you,
scrape colors off the 
flying canvas,

shout your new story 
from an ancient mountain, 
slowly from your wound
drips the milky way.

looking for myths, the wind 
blows slowly in the wounded starlight,
the last word of your story 
heard by angels in the morning.

                        

                       — martinez
                         october 2016