PRIESTS OF THESE ATLANTIC TEMPLES

        The swell of mid-atlantic waves is not
        an indication of the love I found
        out of your reach on the the last pier facing
        the annihilating surf. El Morro
        still rises like a barnacled scuba diver
        along the shore here, looking
        beyond the small city rising
        against the beach. So when we sat to dig
        bits of shells from our sandals
        we became like any wanderers among
        hotels, buffets, casinos where singers
        bade us entry for ten American
        dollars. The shape of the line in front
        of the pink hotel girdling shore?
        Like trim Texans from Abeline
        there to see the thin winter waterspouts
        form in the bay, after the show let out.

    

Copyright © Albino Carrillo, 2004. All Rights Reserved.