At three A.M. we passed
through the Great Pit
and our boat, which had always been creaky

The memory of Lisa descends again
through night’s hole.
A rope, a beam of light

When Lisa told me she’d made love
to someone else, in that old Tepeyac warehouse
phone booth, I thought my world

Auto in sunlight: every trace of gloss
Is dulled a rusting green.
Even the fenders are a dirty chrome

On the long brick walls, human names:
Even the roofs were signed:

Hydrant spilling
Its chipped, heavy mouth

As if we arrived through the blind extremes
of sleep, we opened our mouths, eyes closed,
and the priest laid on our tongues his coins

Take the moment we’re living in, the traces
of words just inches from your lips.

Our own hands are never pure enough.