“In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart” — W.B. Yeats

We’re slouching at a brackish corner
beneath awnings. People stand
in wedges with towels draped over shoulders.

The people with towels are succinct
in their movement.

Trucks are penciled to streets.
From the garish crackle of excess and remnants,
scooters spit, drift.

Vowels take their own routes
and the sun unfolds and lies flat
against more peeling plaster.
So many certain minutes.

Buildings hide their edges under piles of shoes
and squat boxes of long-necked
drink bottles, sweating.

The sun is a knife, cutting
higher and lower. Trucks juxtapose
directions, hauling black livestock.

Again, crowds smear what might be distance.

We’re behind the woman selling mangoes
laid out like a lawn of yellow.
We stand and we sit. Surrender to colors, chafing.