Against the intelligence of violence,
Its silken rage and flowery ardor,
Are so many murmurs beneath what the surf breaks
As the mezcal makes them care
About speaking more than being heard,
Like a raw and lusty wind that longs to swirl
As if its laugh could echo in the numb jars
And could slowly rub its hands against the walls.
The laughter has the blue of the liqueurs,
The harp guitars' arpeggios of sea,
The things that make us believe each other
Under bubbling salsa drums with limbs akimbo,
And shiver inside like the dark leaves of mesquite.
It's so much water falling
In a calm of bristling wind.
But it's always 3 AM somewhere.
A different kind of breaking
Expresses itself then,
As the void crashes in
With a dissonant lull that cannot resolve
Except as unanswerable objection.
It seethes against all resistance
With voices, glasses, chairs,
Finding the contention instead is mere air.
