before the globes lighting the plaza
die out at 9:30 pm sharp.
But this was
Villahermosa.
Lightning burns like mescal in
the throat of night.
The whisky priest skulks about
the mountain roads where you are headed, at
Chiapas or Las Casas, charging so many
pesos per baptism in the illegal night.
With or without him thrive the false
saints & miracles in these remote regions,
pure homage to superstition.
O comfort of Poverty! O lie of Pleasure!
You recalled the hot seaport,
your departure planned on the Ruiz Cano
that dangerous barge which took you
out over the Gulf of Mexico
away from the anger hidden in laughter,
from the pistilleros lounging by
the Presidencia.
You the too curious
gringo left behind you the coasting steamers
& pink squared plazas to forget the
taste of warm beer in dreary cantinas.
You headed for the high ground
of Tabasco & the country of ruined churches.
Back at the beginning
of those lawless
roads lie the dingy houses smearing out onto
silver sandhills.