Over Mazatlan

Frigate birds in far thermals, whirl up
ash-like behind the north-most island -
too far, from here, to make out the
pointedness of beaks and piratical, stark wings.

Exact fish cooks broil the moment. Taxi
drivers carry saints and tourists to their shrines.
Each peso is a wafer. When the hat vendors
head home, they take a little wind and whistle.

By night, we all dream. Spiral up
in moonlight, air boiling against our bellies.
Odor billows from the ground. These birds
have shown us air blooming inside of air;

and how each warm-blooded one of us
stews and flickers, sending up his scent.


by Bill Yake