Our Cities Vanish: Poetry by Ray Hinman
The Poetry of (the late) Ray Hinman
The Rio Grande flows like a hat band
under the international bridge.
When I went over, there was a small blue cross
wrapped in red and white wreaths
stuck in the sand below, fifty yards from
the railing, completely overlooked.
I stood and wondered who it could have been for.
Across the river adobe blazes white in the sun.
Dope smugglers buy drink for their unemployed
friends, liquor flows like a scalding sacrament,
as precious as the girls
who step from white afternoons offering themselves
for a handful of pesos...their brothers sell
shoes or Yankee news papers.
The rubble molds, shinning in the sun, the fabric
of poverty laughing in the world's face.
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