now, my street runs
northsouth curves
west then back east again
becomes Sylvan, the
old forest road to the trinity
bottoms, then, across and
into town
there's a place where 5 mile
creek appears above ground
awhile
then hides again on it's way
to the river
all day, the cars, trucks and
buses run along the Sylvan
way into town and back out again
they drop off the immigrants
in strange black sombreros, los
vaqueros, walking stiffly, proudly,
in cheap, ornate, high heeled
botas they are
Aztec in countenance, regal in
demeanor, like Pizarro, or Cortez
surveying
Tenochtitlan
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