IV. Le Roitelet

IV. Le Roitelet

Red elisions, except for those who might be powerful tomorrow—

For a blue Santa Muerte in her rusted tin bier, a bell stabs each sixth

Daylight hour, for the sixth month Gabriel sprang into a virgin’s ear—

For her share of the litter, and hail of gunfire—There too, a sixth letter, zeta

The dusted appearance suggests rubber; beaded moisture on a dead man,

Above tangles of hair caught in razor-wired palisades—A kinglet’s

Olive flight path among piñas cut before the agave flowers—The kinglet’s

Excited red crown stirs Saddle Mountain—In mortal confusion of all tomorrows,

Perhaps a motive lay in the radio Angelus, or the 1963 x-rayed vision of a dead
Child in a coffin by the recollected fields of Ampurdan—December 14, 1936,
He made the cover of Time—Dalí, who had us understand that Millet’s man
Concealed the origins of an extinguished race—The stigma displaces zeta

From the sixth position—Federal Judicial Police radio code  Z1, for Los Zetas—
After roast goat, affiliates fire bombed the Casino Royale as unquestioned kings

Of narcoviolence—Eyes multiplied around the blocked emergency exits, where men
Set out to dominate this altar; the feeling flourished in declarations, reckoned by tomorrow’s

Ashes, sensational—Pinned a Thin Lady with denominations and peyoté buttons—Six,

Including The Redhead and The Egg can only be identified by sketch portraits—The dead

Populate a Surrealist illumination—Speaking in clenched teeth, cracked bitumen of the dead,
"Yes," Millet said with satisfaction. "Can you hear the bells?"—Santa Muerte of Los Zetas,

Or peasant vanguard—The struggle binding Mallarmé’s happy livestock of men—After a six-

Month illness, his son, Anatole died—L'Angélus disfigures all seriousness of a prayer—Kinglets
Flocking overhead bear Cuvier’s name of their only genus, Regulus—Lacerated by a madman

In 1932, the original’s overplanted casket is again divisible, The Angelus of Gala, 1935, tomorrow’s

Mise en abîme—How to bear the unnamed heirs of a humiliated life, where tomorrow’s

Wheelbarrows dump their payload of teeth and brass casings—Gala’s scowl preempts dead
Children, asking more of him; they blur into a mirage of a couple they make—To other men,  

The Earth just extends its invitation—Zayin, sword, or manacle, transliterates as Zeta—

Mallarmé at 24 discerned the sure sword, its traumatic renewal in every word as kinglets,

Weighing one-fourth of an ounce, flit nervously through the understory—Any of its six

Species—Four-bit hexadecimal is a formal construction, allowing the street number 16

As a probability, a perfect square, contiguous to waking worlds of Santa Muerte, tomorrow’s
Quartered bodies of journalists; all that is left, exists inside us—In spite of jockeying kinglets,

Pathetic drop curtains of the Press—1866, Millet rediscovered landscapes at Vichy, after a dead

Commission, L'Angélus—Devotees of the Thin Lady are outcast classes, Sinaloa, Zetas
Each to his own mobile oppositions—There is no money in heaving tourist luggage—Men

Under disassembled banners—No removal is ever possible, despite women, the straight-six
Combustion engine copied by a four-color process—Forest canopies of kinglets mock the dead,
Add them to the careworn lilies of Matthew 6—I find you, improbable zeta; not decades later,
For tomorrow’s praxis.