A spasm of brown and tan
crosses Armijo Lateral.
Waves of squirming tadpoles
fan like peacock feathers
in a paunch of late morning light.
In the low pool
a few feet long
½ those feet
by murky water.
An effervescence in its eyes
as it spits out its tongue
to taste me over
and over. A red tongue
with a black fork tip.
Nothing left to look forward to
Ever plan something a long way in the
future and think it’ll never get here?
until there it is sticky against your
blushing cheeks but soon enough
the blood goes and the sun slips
the ridgeline as you look to find
the perfect bough your bear bag
and somewhere in New Hampshire
Los Lobos is encoring with La Bamba
into Good Love back into La Bamba
and everyone’s phones are up so
you know it’s the end of the world
and your lover’s snoring – y’all’s
birthday suits stashed with all the other
dirty work clothes under throw pillows
at the foot of the bed, the ritual of your special day
punctuated by this new sensation
of pointlessness: death’s precursor,
and on that last breath, how will you feel
knowing there’s nothing left
to look forward to?