Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 24, December 2012—Trans / Queer Issue)
Reproduction of another of the details by J.L. Berlandier.  A vast, hilly landscape, dotted with small trees.  Two men walk hand-in-hand in the lower right hand corner near two other men, one on horseback the other near two of the trees.

See Air, Apart I Do

The reasons for this cleft.

A limited number of words

left. A meander,

yes, flat and worked upon to form that flatness.

Yes, sculpted, wound mezquite root.

Stones, rock to trip, stumble.

Rock kicks pulsating,

a fire near Sta Barbara, Tamaulipas.

. . . when these words do not seem to be same, when they slip out of hands and seem to be yours? Or ours? Can we call a sound a stone? A phoneme a rock?

Meld and molded

felled and folded.

Now the you through here is just as lost as we.

This is how, after all, we work, this is how

in us, this is how we lurch⎯and already multiplied.

Ring Chaburo or ring the villa—these words

as monuments crumble tumble

jumble down.

Sit a while


night come.