Chicano Poet

Sunday, January 19, 2014


Redhanded with hot property
I gallop into the ocean
waves made of metal posts
bob up and down like flower stems
whose destination
could fit inside the bottle
I point above my head.
Guilty of love as well as of sin
I steal the lighthouse furniture
to make a home for you
the chairs on which I will
make love to you
held against the crashing surf
cold hands of the moonplace
peep out from their holes
I must move like seaweed
underneath the brittle sand.


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