lament for José Marti

(Cuando, oh Poesia, cuando en tu seno reposar me es dado! José Marti)

i'm closer to the embrace of brugmansia in my mazie in which my forgotten hendecasyllable transpires upon the sunset lit iris just the length of caesura until the Mexico evenings grow into my white bones & your songs run warm like a bullet in my skull

like a sword-billed hummingbird that must hold its long bill up high to balance i once called it belief called it poesia what do they hum like when a turquoise blue crawls inside your jazz wanting to fly back to the dead of the oceans what do they hum like when the pendulous toloache bleeds & i hear my horse coming back for a second time to play favorites with dead