By | 1 November 2019

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.

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.

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