by David Hernandez

He seems the sum of Yucatán
In a French shade. He steps.
He has some virtue. He forages
For heat. In him, feelings
Cohere to some extent.
Toadstool to mollusk—
He fills this mountainside
On the outer peninsula.
Once fisherman specialist.
With thick stalk filament.
So soon and the visitors will
Come—the visitors are
Always welcome, of course.
Toadstool dangling
Hoops. Nothing of vines
In his midst. But—yes, twistings
Of toadstool. What would it entail?—
To shrink, he wonders.
He only wonders. In this
Regard, the wind is similar.

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