poetry

is the last quilombo
perched up on a hill remotely
or submerged in the forest
strange skull-like buildings hung in the trees
connected only by tongue lashings
and uselessness or revery

guarded by escaped slaves
who were once warriors
or princesses or pirate barbers
bandits who love dogs
and mixed crops
and who smoke up the vines

don't come looking for us
we're not here
but we are trying on your linens
and pretending to drink tea
while we drink tea
and practice our archery
in this spot we can see the sea

our palms are open
to this terrible nonsense


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