I Am Always Carrying Mexico In My Nostrils,
Tecate’s Smell Of Burning Garbage,
Ashed Things Blown Around Afterward.

The Beautiful Orphanage,
That Place Of Death, Valley Of Deformity
Squeezed Between Large Rolling Hills.

My First Escape Of The Usa,
Lasting Parody Of Earth’s Clay Vessels,
Cracking, Mostly Unmalleable And Unable To Join To Anything.

This Picture Of The Rising Sun In The Cold Desert,
Everyday, Turn, Turn, Turn,
Orphans Smiling, Because What Is An Orphan?

In The Earth, The Upright Thinkers
Smiling, Passing, Walking, Turn,
Unconscious Weary Sojourn For A Womb, A Reconnection.
Where Are Mothers, If Not In The Ashen Wind?

More Shayari by Matthew Giardini
    19 May 2019 No Comment 1

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