I think about how Dallas has this light in the morning and

 how when we begin a poem, setting is first
description follows, 
           then somehow the observer comes in the poem and grabs you…

They may continue to describe, but they move you from Dallas’s light into a myriad of worlds

Some are opposing, some are worlds within other worlds tied by a finite description of a memory or declaration.

They write a small respite rhyme so tiny, but it there’s and you flow

Slowly you drift and they bring you back to their eyes and they take them out

Sometime they are pulled out in a gruesome way
Or handed
Or surgically removed

Suddenly you notice the power of three… or four or seven.

You are left holding this page or book, re-reading the beginning and savor
Determining and not
Trying not to judge

Because you like traveling standing still, 
                                                          overflowing in 
                                                                                   emotion vision and              
even hostility.

When I saw Dallas in the morning, I knew it was my last American sunshine and I was headed to Mictlan where my lover Tlaloc would soon meet me. Xolotl, let out a breath into my face and I breathed in, so I would fear not.