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My people of stucco, clay
how readily they gather
in their other world -
across fields
against stone-bedded mountains
or at ease outside thatched hutments
with their nativity animals and earthenware bowls
In twos or threes
or in a ghostly column
baskets on heads, moving to
nowhere.
Most with eyes averted
while the young gaze back -
gaze through, look afar
though intent on being looked at
and singled out, choreographed
take a chance
on a life by proxy -
as do some with age on their faces
women more than men
a web of fear and gloom
focusing, telling us this is them
Yet there are drums, music
revelry amid the rubble
and bristling of bodies in a game
dust, distance
dull glitter of arms before sunset
and somewhere
a stagnant pool’s privileged gleam
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