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



Slithering closer:

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?


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