The Thin Man
The thin man
looks out of his window
and watches the leaves
as they twist and fall
like they did last autumn.
Golden carpets
spread across the grass
while under the lindens
the slender hands of children
crush flowers into perfume
and interlace bright
threads into tapestries
woven with light.
Will the thin man
give up his secret?
It cannot be clutched
by the camera’s artificial eye,
by the painter’s red squirrel brush,
nor by the tail of the dog fox
held over bandaged eyes.
Cows in the thin man’s
fields are scrawny.
They once walked
wary of the thin man
with his fistful of stones,
his pointed stick,
his sharp knife
and his slant-eyed dogs
that showed off
the basket weave of their ribs
with a rash of gravelly nipples
rippling against the skin
when they ran
snapping and slashing
with ivory fangs
at the frightened cattle.
Now the thin man is dying.
His cattle graze in peace.
His spirit wants to slide
through a gap in the cactus fence
and wander celestial pastures.
“I will light a fire,”
the witch doctor says.
He begins with the glow-
worm of a match.
That small flame smolders
as he breathes life into
shavings and dry bark.
Stars reach out
with tender hands.
A new spark walks
among the constellations.
The goats on the roof
grow grey with age.
Beside them,
a dappled donkey brays
as the thin man’s spirit
sets out on its journey to the stars.
A herd of seven goats, the Pleiades
rise above the sacrificial mound.
The witch doctor’s heart
shrinks to the size of an orange pip
when he cradles the thin man’s
body in his arms.
On the horizon,
Tochtli
gnaws at the moon’s
white skull.
Murciélago
exits his cave with evening
wrapped beneath his wings.
Tezcatlipoca
holds a stone
knife in his iron hand.
The thin man
dreams of Santo Domingo
where the golden tree
bends like a rainbow,
exposing its roots
as the end draws near.
rogermoorepoet 