Who calls, who envies the vast touches, the light on leaves or
Morning over the canopy of the rain forest, alive with bugs,
Humid with the night’s mist, her inimitable repetition,
Day in with hummingbird, day out with the darting bat
And her taste for blood.

Dead of night, moored in a Spanish harbor.
Lorca’s guitar strings pacing the wave’s reflection for
The echoes of deceased Duende, pacing.
Jaguar, prisoner, worried minds
Turning bright tail of dancer’s dresses,
Tresses of hair tied flat as cockatoo feathers on a perfect back,
A rib cage beneath the feathers of desire.

A working life of woman after dancing,
Holding bucket in one hand, baby in the crook of her arm and hip.
Who is to carry the water of the darkened theater.
Who paint the frescoes of the chipping bank,
Closed and no longer illustrious.

Bandito Amazons, eight feet tall in the musky glib of tale telling,
Like little mice that talk, amateurs that make it big.
It needs to be expanded, horrendous turnover of the margin land,
The soft grass of the ball field grown long,
The wind ruling the roof tops.

Garcia, where blow, where dress the soccer ball crowd moving as the wave
As the hem of the police tears, as the army runs out of money to pay.
See the people build shrines of ambivalent memory, tributes to defile your time,
Humble passion that the mind might be free,
Might be infused by the luminescent psyche of your stage, flamenco dancer, drained Sevilla,
Orozco, Amazonia, send us your people, wet from rain finally come to parched land.

The need for the theater is real.
Bring us the people, the multitude, the undeveloped talent of war
Superstitious with their power and not easy to please.
Not easy to put down, the shuffling crowd on the ship deck or on the moving roof of the train.
See the fast wind in their hair or cramped in the tiny seats of airplanes looking out.
A journey to the feet of the jungle and the delta spread wide and sandy
As her lap in siesta,
Back again in the drop your words make in her mind,
The terrible freedom transformed to determined action,
Gesture of beauty with the back of one hand raised,
The hips in slight twist to raise one knee and toes to tip toe,
The head poised looking back over her shoulder
To your resplendent inheritance
Now leaking like the creek into the waves
Over wet rocks cold as lost harmonies,
Hard as pay day to conceive such reservoirs of handsome and robust potential.

The line weeps the people along,
Feet and knees,
With an anxious eye if only, arrived
As only your little shelter in the killing fields.