The Giants of Santiago

A cursive line of words describes precious things,
a blurry, alabaster skin and flashing eyes,
half-closed against skies and sound of thunder,
the rumble of all senses overwhelmed and shutting down.

The love of all this, of all surroundings, fills me,
the signs of half-seen shadows in the ether,
linking mind to world and world to other worlds,
drag me awake to stand and face the light and buzz.

The marching street lamps drink, and dripping fire
like jewels, sweep the roads with film and oil.
And these are gods, asleep to break a voyage,
divine and perfect lovers, covering the suburbs,

their breath becoming storms, their tears rains,
and dreams becoming tremors as the city shakes,
a microscopic, infinite disaster at the feet of gods.
We tell the future with the blood of giants.

The sun is blinding white, alive with eye motes,
a light that flattens history and lingering laments
for all things done and not done in a life.
The giants turn and showing blind-eyes, exhale.