Summer is disappearing into a wasp.
The Jesus men gather in a place called Dof
and cut their hair all the same length.
You can buy one for five dollars.
He is wretched:
a tall man with a shrubby beard, eyes of a fox, an old brave
coat
a man the colour of honey, something sticking out of his
pocket arrogance
In the desert a cactus is water.
In an apartment a cactus is the face of Jesus.
If you take a body
out of a body,
you are left with skin. Take
the man with his ribs
showing through, the dark bellies
of his eyes he is singing
with his guitar a cherry is falling
out of his pocket — no, a fig this is a man
who possesses a fig
if you take him out of him,
you get another fig
If you get on a bus, the Jesus men disappear.
They like to go on foot:
a man with a tallow face, eyes
like wicks
a man eating an orange
with its rind
a slightly large man on a stool outside his shop, hair grey, heart
beating like two tree sparrows
caught in a bin
a man not taller than you, stitching
all across his chest some wounds, he offers,
are more desired than others
