L.A. or Spain, the desert is the same
despite distance across the Atlantic Ocean.
When eyes of voyeurs penetrate, you tame
your tongue, lather your sun-torched legs with lotion,
and as sweat drips like tears into stone eyes,
you turn, stare back, and wink a knowing wink
at the film camera lens. You realize
surmise is that, something people will drink
up without much reflection on the status
quo. Here is a man, brown as swallowed dirt
in swollen lungs, and the lens, his afflatus
for swallowing down the sun-scorched land that hurts.
Here sweats the man who pushed friendship in gratis—
For it’s a man’s eyes, not words, that truth imparts.