New York Morning

Three Mexicans performed and sang their mariachi
music on the subway train: as short and squat
as Mayan gods: eliciting soft secretive reactions

from the lot of us: I smelled a tiny twitchy strain
of fear arise among embarrassed smiles: a woman
near me dropped a dollar into a sombrero hat: but

we were in the presence of a force whose guile
would never be appeased by that: snakes and predatory
birds were coiling round the poles: a temple twining

with a sinuosity of vine emerged, took over our
compartment and would surely have engulfed our souls
in shadow with a seizing blast of destiny had not

the temple just then reached another station: let
the Mayan gods get out in their disguise, and plan
another enigmatic rout before another audience’s eyes.


.