Along the Pan American Highway, farmhands wade through fields of roses.
Pills linger on the tongue like moths on water.
Droplets of pollen slip from anther to stamen.
I wait at a tollbooth with market bag and notebook.
A stem’s placability should not be mistaken for delicateness.
“Breathe deep,” the doctor told me and slid his stethoscope like a coin over my chest.
A seat by the window suffices to stitch the world together.
Consider the number of heartbeats per minute within
this pasture of traffic.
Exaggerated mania for identification, writes André Tridon, is a symptom of weakness.
Vaya con dios. Frene con motor.
During a season of vinegary prescriptions, I sketch market produce and bullrings.
When fertilization takes place, ovaries swell, each petal folds like a fist.
Before a sloshing door at the back of the bus, who
wouldn’t resent the IMF?
Along the Pan American Highway, a beekeeper tends the blue cabinets of his hives.
A billboard celebrates: 300,000 more miles of pavement.
published in DIAGRAM 4.3