METROPOLIS: BOLSHEVIK SUPER-POEM IN 5 CANTOS
V

The savage hordes of the night
lie down over the frightened city.

The bay,
flowering
with masts and moons,
spills
over the ingenuous
music score of her hands,
and the distant scream
of a steamboat,
toward the Nordic seas.

                                Goodbye
                                to the shipwrecked continent!

                Between the wires of her name
remain feathers of birds.

Poor Celia Maria Dolores;
the scene is inside us.
Beneath hatchet blows of silence
iron architectures are devastated.
There are waves of blood and storm clouds of hatred.

                                Desolation.

                                The marijuana discourses
                                of legislators
splattered her remembrance with droppings,
but,
her tenderness has fallen headlong
on the multitudes of my soul.

Ocotlán
there, far away.
Voices.

                                Impacts peck about
                                trenches.

All night lust stoned
balconies under cover of a virginity.

Shrapnel
makes pieces of silence sound.

Resounding
and deserted streets,
they are rivers of shadow
that go into the sea,
and the sky, frayed,
is the new
flag
that flutters
over the city.