For Cecilio Garcia-Camarillo

I can not stand your silence,
what you would have thought

of this or that hungry poet,
what New Mexican sky

would be enough for you,
what fine desert sand

you would welcome into your house,
what dark mountains you’d climb

(Aztlan perhaps just out of reach)
the sun blazing

in an Aztec dawn,
the enemy high-tailing it out of town,

you hot on their trail
to offer mercy.