The Second Time We Saw the Malecón Flooded

Pour miles of froth

Through the unearned gaps

Over the handled wall

And against the spilled faces

Of past life pastel plaster

their saltseized ceilings

reflecting through gaped frames

the wash and sink

encampments of the tide

Wait for a while, and wonder

Whether the wading child

Or the drowning wheelwell

Imagines wide drains and the

Wet sucking of stone 

Hoisting itself to surface,

Turning its belly to the sun:

Asserting its sovereignty,

Drumming its mossy teeth.

Here the good herbs are muddled

The cane splayed to the root

New lines dissect the byways

And complication stitches every tongue.

Kings cut through the waters 

Uncareful of the language of their hosts;

While the face beneath the ori

Opens only to mingled moors and christians,

The visitor feasts on imperador. 

Fitting, if they could understand.

From a place of dignity below

A curtain of flags, we were once told,

This place was taken from the sea,

And someday (they whispered in the words of the eagle),

The sea will take it back.