Poema para el Duende

It cannot be done
without the proper language;

without the vanes,
the dart cannot strike home.

It cannot be perfect,
must hold a flaw, must fray
the sensible. 

The heart of it
must beat insanely fast
even as its hand is steady.

There shall be a moment of damage
in its center.
A diamond bird in flight
shall see it, fall upon it,
cut through. 

All around it, the sex of ghosts,
and crudely painted jugs holding rain
that was caught in a desert
years ago.

Now, there’s nothing to do
but drink and live.