Afternoon in Bed

Walking home, past the butcher’s, the baker’s and the smiling pinyata maker’s, the light crashed off our boots. But really my gunpowder’s dissolved in wine dripping down between your breasts. Green shadows of hills. A pelican resting on a rock. It rains here every day, and if we’re lucky the rain falls into sunlight, and when the phone rings it might just as well be church bells ringing, and we just let it ring.