The Chichimecas are in the hills.
They have built a huge bonfire.
I am at my window with a telescope
counting shadows flickering in front of the flames.
There must be at least a thousand Chichimecas
and their many dogs, for they are the dog people.
Maybe there is only one Chichimeca
and his dog pacing back and forth
in front of the fire trying to make me think
that there are one thousand Chichimecas in the hills.
There are Chichimecas in the alley.
They have taken down the street signs
and built another bonfire—STOP, SCHOOL CROSSING,
SLIPPERY WHEN WET, the Chichimecas are showing
a preference for S’s slithering into smoke.
The Chichimecas have broken into the abandoned
train station from one of my poems. The one
where the sound of the plastic tips of my shoelaces
clicks against pavement like lobsters.
They are cooking the lobsters in a steel drum.
After they have devoured the lobsters, they lie down
with their dogs. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff the dogs.
Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff the Chichimecas,
for they have found aerosol paint cans
and they are holding rags soaked with paint spray
to their noses. This makes the moon come down.
Chichi mommy, chichi mommy, chant the Chichimecas
as they fall asleep in a pile with their many dogs.
Chichi mommy as they snore and dream that the stars
are dripping milk into their open mouths.