where cactus pricks the sunscorched haze
against the rainless afternoon
three zopilotes sit and wait
to pick apart the carcass moon
and still more scrub of soap on stone
with slap and shake and fling of wrist
though I unsmooth each ironed piece
before night creeps along the mist
only this
I return to old complaints
like the earth to its seasons
the church has its saints
and I my reasons
one needs to know trees
their leaves, bark and roots
to perceive what one sees—
the mind has no shoots
only this: the older I grow
the more I feel, not know
the need of believing—
my youth is leaving
maturity
for years I watched it grow
in thought and shape a man
though it was smaller then and mild
I was in fact a gentle child