—to Chucha

Teach me of the life profane,
to wedge my nose in every hedge
and rumple pruned perfection
till it’s wavy at the edges.
Teach me not to fear what drips,
what oozes, pools and gathers grit,
what lives in lower places
and lurks around the bend.
Show me how to trick the yoke,
keep it brimming with suspense—
now slack, now tense—an argument
against the natural order.
To know a street within my skin,
its length, its heat, its arteries,
its odors and its undulations,
risks and green and revelations,
whirr of birds and near-collisions,
to thrill towards it with my tips
full-force is something I desire.
Lead the way then and perhaps
lit by your living lunatic maps,
mine will unfurl or catch fire.