Where

the market

met the church

and powdered stones

reminisce together,

the visible still

sits with time on its blood,

this hoary tropical day where

the sign proclaims Cuauhtemoc

fell to Jesus Christ on such and such a recent day.
Can all ruins look the same? Squint and the plaza

takes on a Celtic hue. The church grew like a lagoon from tidal stones

and the apartments grew from modern Aztecs. If God could wring the church

(of course he could) whose blood would soak the grass of distant modern ages? Idols have

a knack for coming back, coming back in time like an inescapable poetic rhyme

but proof of idol failure is pinned under lasered glass and man-made light

in the museum. There are three things here. I am imprisoned

by the new church with five minutes to close looking at imported nudes

and Canadian narcissisms when the spire, made of market stones, taps on

the plastic window. It’s closing time, the idols bearing stone fists, smash their prisons,

scamper to the windowsill and shimmy down the obliging cross to the bells, which

ring in soft haphazard tones as idol feet induce an ugly sway. And then to the

market and down the distant metro lines in all directions

to run forever and the glass bounces at my feet. 
                                                                               Security

stumbles in. Sir, what does this mean, what did you do?

The world has turned to glass again, and we are stuck

above the ground in shadow buildings, looking

down at Tlatelolco, spongy ground, and steely sky

for there is no land for us, or ancient times

of heroes, and we have no gods to fail us

only numbered notes and flawless cameras

and we can only marvel at those

autochthonous dreams of other idols

where the church and market meet
and idol drums beat idol feet.