Between the window washer and curb, a galaxy swirls.
Between windshield and rag, office towers sway.
Old ladies pluck orange candies from pink market tubs.
Passionflower vines capture red and blue wavelengths of light.
Any search requires a preposition as in “Estoy buscando a mi amigo”.
Tradewinds skirt a Flamazul truck with its license plates from the interior.
Water trembles in a cistern with nothing to heat it.
The frigid woman, writes André Tridon, is a cripple or a neurotic.
Jacaranda trees bloom like lightning strikes.
“To the girl with the prettiest eyes,” he says handing me his knife.
Nutrient cycling occurs through a process similar to valet parking.
Between my lover and myself, a preposition stiffens like cinderblock brick.
A guard in a bulletproof vest hoses a pick-up.
Every time he’s out of my sight: “Estoy buscando a mi querido”.
The window washer slaps a twisted red rag against the curb.
A broom licks the sidewalk. A slice of flesh-red mamey slips from his blade.
— Originally published in Pioneers in the Study of Motion (Ahsahta, 2007)
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