"Indio."
Indio is a town perhaps most of you
have driven through on the way to Los Angeles,
somewhere out there in the desert.
"Indio."
Naked boy you lie stretched among the withered palms,
tangled in scrap, tracks around your neck.
Owls are you and at noon the sand eats your thighs.
Numbed, you watch those seven chanting sisters circle, circle
the horizon in their flimsy skirts.
Holding your breath, there's one about to be eaten.
And on holidays unable to lift your head.
Listener's dirty toe headed girls
hide in the washes preparing toasts for your honor
with cups of sperm.
Your hands break out with asterisks,
counter sinks, oil stains.
A locomotive roars through your head.
Even now the peaks rise white creamy with it
while bones green.
The burnt flesh falls back from them.
A pitted son smiles through your ribs.