the paintings buried
in the Mexican's garden
remind me of her face,
how it dried in muddy patches
like some old Roman God.

i remember that day in Nagasaki when
those sirens screamed
louder than the babies
that had been left tied
to their bassinets.

We were walking through
a storm, talked about
for miles, spitting dust
from behind teeth

and then this girl  
stood on her defeated
city that smoked
between her heels
like a charmed snake
choking on mescaline:

she looked at us with
these salty eyes that never
closed, told us they had lost
their mind days before.
i never saw them change,
not until we drove off
leaving her to rot.

once, behind the dumpsite, a driver
asked me how it was
and i told him
about Mickey's gun,
the way Savannah's teeth turned
black, how her dress
tore in all
the right places
the kid just nodded-
kept on pissing.