That crazy mexican is playing
tijuana circus music again.
His son is small with a face
the color of vanilla beans.
I think of emaciated foxes
hiding in their darkened dens.
My grandfather listens
to Chopin, his teeth
aglow in the dusk-
piano keys in moonlight.
When he hums, the walls
close in like curtains.
Someone upstairs is holding
a cello, a soft embrace...
I can hear them making love-
the bow of thunder drawn
against across thighs of night.
Wolves with mouths, gracefully
shaped - astonished "o"s
sing of trees, meadows, rivers.
Wild angels in large fur coats
compose- the sound of music.
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