The mountains in Mexico are mythical and move }
My mind like old longings or last night’s dream,
Repeating love’s problem innocently as apples.
These peaks fire memories of past or future,
And down crag on donkey
Could come but a Christ
To plains of the present, the static act, and I
Am not Christ, though I stand amid cactus to stare
In God’s eye, spit in my dish of future and past;
My pimpled-thief heart has quaked fearing pain,
Quells, fearful of love.
Ai yi-ee! Fictive pack trains jingle and plod.
Higher, scarlet and drowsy, the big macaws nod.
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