wandering in oaxaca a photograph
of yosemite lies crumpled in the pocket of a nurse who wraps the wind around her mamacita’s neck. the nurse warms the wind so it won’t remind her of the sea, or the time when horses were some other animal changing slowly into long-lost street musicians who cry and holler at the hollow sky until all the couples tie themselves in knots, ancient and silent, lost men and women coated with oil that seeps from a symphony in the park, before it was written on all the leaves, fill a cup, smear it on a telescope lens and see an asteroid aiming carefully at a wet and glistening shell in the sand.
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