O avocado
that cannot sleep
through the night in its mesh bowl
O Sinaloan lychee
whose brightness confounds
those who harvest and pack it in perforated pails
And then we were in Amatenango del Valle
expelled by the jungle
beyond the acacia and Brahma bulls
and choked hyacinth tanks
a few clicks up the blacktop
from Teopisca
Do not go there but follow the sail of words
Do not sing
nor obsess over exactitude
Do not go after it
Directly
Go after it as you would a pomegranate
the tree beyond my barred window
the clustered acrimony
or sweet insinuation of lemons
the hand of air that is their seasonal reprieve
from the everlasting ordinary
nothingness of tongues or compost