Oh, I see
time respools
— encomienda
one expects shudder
to agree with scythe
but instead — prisons
Cortés-like — discovers
gold ore floating atop tear
duct digs too hard too
something something in the language
doesn’t leap from the page
languishes low in one’s hometown
well into one’s late 30s one reads
bougainvillea and feels only the moon
disappearing behind the low sun
which long ago blacked
highest mountaintop
cracked deepest ocean
there it is inadequacy unspooling
with respect for the broken pieces one
finds in the sand confirms something
somewhat
beautiful of
gilded roots.