La Playita

Remember the time it snowed moths

on New Year’s? That sweltering December


melting into January, a hush of wings

as they settled, cocooning the church,


drifting over the flagstones like dry leaves,

little things borne on a scrap of breeze.


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I have heard that sometimes being shot does not hurt,

or hurts only vaguely, like a sense of missing something.

This is the body, shocked, uncomprehending of magnitudes,

of calibers, of numbers whose referent is many lives, is life,

the unity divided, the division made whole, the body

without organs, the organs bleeding together.

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