he died loose in town
short of air, a son and humility,
black hair sprayed on pavement.
metal aids gave back his breath
but took half his stomach in trade,
some old fungus, separate
leaves on the branch
off the trunk of his only body.
a worthwhile trade.
does he refigure birth
on this late cusp of rebirth
counting the son in a past life?
did he speak to angels?
he says no. he heard
every word in spanish
the nurses, tv
but they weren’t speaking it.
he doesn’t either.
colors were dense,
saturated with fever, drugs
or else something, and
every dark hispanic woman
was achingly beautiful.
because he said
mexico
as a short cut to
santa fe,
they thought his head damaged.
they held him, held to him
the head of his own in some shock
for an extra week.
he thought he had it straight.
he is surprised to realize
he could have been so confused
in such a small space, one room.
but he notes all the space
held in time.
orphan poems 