From the Fishouse

The drainage ditch is fueled with poisons.
The sunset moves like an animal in a bag.

It’s as if the caballero, with his spoon,
used a swan for a chimney.

Urchins accuse each other of infidelity
as the mint leaves float in the diplomat’s glass.

A rooster’s gasoline pumps the tractor
red as smoke devoured by worms.

Rain cuts the white cars, like a tiled stove:
a yardkeeper in a forgotten station sips milk.

A rag of salt flavored with bullion makes this guy
shift from one foot to the other.

“What have you earned,” his wife asked him.
“I have earned a life beyond the grave.”