The Rio Grande flows like a hatband 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 sacrement, 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 moulds, shinning fn the sun, the fabric of poverty laughing in the world's face.