The stone heard about the stone, the waterfall washed the waterfall,
twenty something waterfalls cascade, the sun pours out as if interjecting.
When the armadillo comes from its cave, the hills vast, the water weary,
the water’s surface, graceful as youth, penetrates the heart with its cold.
All of the canyon’s heat finally shifts inside the village.
Here, hundreds of hammocks, pot smoke floats off for thirty miles.
Bob, wearing Che Guevara clothes. Mario calls out to me,
asks me to go with him to light the bonfire on a black girl’s belly.