Don’t forget
it in his eyes,
how he rose;
Vicente awoke
at four for yours and you on the couch with a bum gut,
made her side of the bed,
his afterwards,
and a pot of cowboy
coffee,
no breakfast,
before blushing Mirabel,
pink below the nose bridge,
in the middle of something–
a phone call
regarding food
stamps.
Regardless, he left
a dub by the bowl
of Meyers about the kitchen counter,
got in the burnt-out
break light of a car
and drove east-west
across Cesar Chavez,
bumping a bit of old
soul, Santana
through and through
six-way stops
at death’s doorstep,
The Anarchy
intersection to prune
this morning
our Mourning
Glory into the shape of a healed heart,
so,
so deep
blue-
indigo, and each day it blooms and folds
closed,
opens and grows
anew, as you do
mírame.