I am writing all this down—sheared asphalt,
groves of mango and saman,
two white crosses moored by the highway,
side-by-side, ripe with symbolism,
but someone else’s.
Also noting the names freshly painted in black
and the crimson and amber flowers spilling
over ochre earth.
As we descend behind an orange-tarped truck,
surrounded by exuberant, ravenous green
A bust of the virgin, painted vivid blue and yellow,
emerges from a chartreuse wall over a dorway.
A doorway bordered entirely with minute hand-carved stars.
Fits in nicely with the two crosses,
thinks the cortex.
Trop de vert, demaciado!
insist the interneuron connections.
While the living flames of poinsettia,
unbearably bright, burn a hole
in the middle of my forehead.