O
fatal sun of Sonora only you keep your word
Let the desert wind abide in its faithless flighty
Let the desert wind abide in its faithless flighty
Voice the
lies the silent offices of the white-
Tongued day
and we if we survive shall be
Discovered driving
a ’72 Impala down a pig-trail
A
tail of dust between Nogales and Hermosillo
O
dry terrain you tremble at the thought of our
Nocturnal oceans you who dream of how
We
flood this desiccated land with our vices
And
our virtues you who see how we resemble
These incalculable
flies replying to the parched
Messages you strew across the sand and after
This fine desperado madness will we feel better?
Will we feel anything at all?
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