Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

desolation
hopeless
cheese

a dusty armadillo
sits
on a long plane

says
if they can see your penis from space
you've got it made

autumn leaves
sweep ghetto ghosts
out of chalky white grottos

the voice says
where is your sense of measure of
self

where is your man
dible
your claw

no matter
says the voice
sit

still
as
before