In this coldly traded place, visitors often see
Art Deco glass, women braiding rope belts,
concrete schools boarded with bulletproof windows,
and birds of paradise with tire tracks on them.
Identical bodies heave on their operating tables.
Sand spills from their hourglass figures
and empties into plastic rum bottles.
I call the number written on the bathroom wall
with a note that said call for a mediocre time.
From the hard seat of the bus, I see the reflection of
my head on your shoulder, and
my hair flying around like an egret’s.
The strangers in front of you kiss with lips too plump to move.
Finally, I see what made you get drunk and
exhaust your dreams until they died within you.
