On a wide pavement that’s not sinking
back into the old Aztec lake
there’s a wave of five workmen sweeping:
synchronised votives in a ritual dance.
Each different coloured broom-head is too
loud: red, orange, neon pink, acid green,
and a shimmering jacaranda blue.
The dust rolls on, plumes of it gleam.
Their soft arcs massage the stone slabs
in syncopation, a canon
beneath their backchat and stabs
of laughter. Fruit still addles
the air from last night’s stalls – pedestrian
hazards festooned with bulbs like tapers
glowing over shrines or the ribbons,
icons, and crosses on baroque altars.
On the road from here, in the low morning sun
a sliver of all the signal spectrum,
a pulse of light parcels, unveils the plain:
volcanoes and outcrops singe the horizon.
| And the feathered serpent brought down from the stars, | |
| his fiery plumage Orion’s belt. | |
| We made glyphs bright with cinnabar, the colour | |
| of blood, smoking like snakes’ tongues. |