To say nothing of the dead, of dust 

There was a time when cactus vendors wrung their paddles for lime-green juice 

Now senseless bells ring in bereaved

market air. Desolate city, I sit and lament 

In grief the sun makes monstrous 

shadow puppets on the prostrate bodies 

of temple walls and questions that fall before 

they have a chance to rise 

are laid out beneath white sheets where once the baker boasted in his stall

Become moan, become the wailing O of the mouth  

which I enter, dark cave, and where 

I die 

                                 and bide my time

and awaken