His Toy Burnt

God was playing with his toys

when he accidently grabbed Chamaco,

broke one of Chamaco’s wheels,

bent Chamaco’s nose of spring and summer.

Chamaco didn’t hold a grudge,

the power of playfulness suffice,

come through,

stood still, fell over,

but otherwise

nothing became of otherwise.

And God’s incandescence

flamed out in the sky so bright.

Chamaco’s soul of holy rocks

heavy in his old age hung on,

brown scar of having been manhandled by God

only a scar upon the sweet horizon.