When you walk down and your
spine drops over your pelvic
frustrations. There are green waves
as big as the dead, shifting
in between the mind and
the soul. You walk down
to Belize, it wasn’t waiting for you.
You dream of another country, a new
republic. It’s a miracle made out of
raindrops, your republic. You want mountains
in bolivia, strangleholds in sweden. The shoulder
spins, the ocular muscles squint.