The Poverty of Fact by Andrew Joron

One lizard is less than one word.
Whose tongue unscrolls to taste the dust?

The walls of the mind are painted
Hot pink, the color of electricity.

Either aether or ore, the barrens accumulate.
Forgive me, I have not eaten today.

I am a talking picture, nothing more
Than a tissue wedged between ages of silence.

Frame by frame, the bus window
Animates the still desert.

By the roadside, the skull of Taurus whitens
Beaconwise—

Correspondent to the unspilled sky.
His horns are garlanded with wandering planets.

This evening in the plaza
Heaven is the guitar that plays itself.

Old church, a rubble patch. Stop here to venerate
The bloody stumps of the black cactus.

Canyon I call for no answer.
To be accurate, a man goes back to his ghost.

As the militia guards the volcano, so
Is necessity measured, against the will.

[Hecho en México, Mayo 2002]

From: https://poetry.lib.uidaho.edu/category/andrew-joron/

Date: 2002

By: Andrew Joron (1955- )