Yesterday, as our journey began, a ways outside the city,
when the men selling hammocks and peppers in small plastic bags began to appear,
we drove past a dog.
Un pero, strong, quiet, dead, in the middle of the road.
A recent kill, eyes open, waiting for the quiet –
of the side of the road.

El pero muerto.
Death is pink and smells
of cotton candy.

Children sing in circles around the carcass of the rotting beast.
Skipping, clapping, tossing their hands up to the sky.
Their words almost swallowed by the cicadas and the men in the bars playing dominos, singing ballads about slowly braking hearts.
“Despues mi corizon, Me viva es muerte,”

The children sing:
“We’re alive. We’re alive.
You’re dead. You’re dead.
Thank god we’re alive and not you instead...”

.....................................................................................................

Death ~
fertile ground of existence
Calling from beneath all seen sands.

We dance upon him
all glitter and mahogany shine.
Buoyant mythologies of a sometimes exuberant life.

I look around me,
mountains-men-horses and humour.
all will pass.

Each breath we are fading.
So we forget that we breathe.
Dress in fine fascades of current plesantry.
Smiles hide teeth eating death like rubber and a hard to digest.
Lips gently quiver as they touch
unwhispering that we are fading.