--- V I C T O R   H E R N A N D E Z   C R U Z

His eyes were binoculars
small things
Had the fury of the cosmos.
A winter enters a molar
a mosquito drinks up the ocean,
Tiny particles - a fly's leg
hits the leaf like thunder,
The very moon a cherry
in a beggar's pocket
And if it down pours rain
horses all wet upon 'chrysanthemum'
Who have no knowledge
of fragrance emanating
From the strokes of a brush -
her kimono full of fruit
Five fingers in her womb.

His father's best crop:  Issa
of the renga chain mountains
of Yataro -
must be a place
Sounds in which gongs
I'll compose it through
his photos
Watch the light in the river
plum trees covered with snow,
A jade Buddha in a garden
toned in the frosty optics
Of an owl through which
a moth crosses out of nowhere
Towards the porcelain light
of a cat's teeth
Which pierced through
the morning fog.
Issa heard insects with sour
throats.
In case of the flies
he always swing with pad.
Bed bugs ran out of the sky
the bed of the stars
Covered by the blanket
of the blue firmament.
He saw facial features scatter
in the sunrise
Noses and eyes charge
up trees insert themselves
In random animation,
and then look back
How ridiculous everything is
scarecrows eating rice
Dogs asleep upon melons
The rich try to buy
the poetry they do not have
Snow turns to shit
they frame it as art.

Quiet… Issa has reincarnated
lives in Detroit
Passes by Barrio
polished Mexian house
Through window
sees kids hit piñata
Looks like flower
coming apart
With las mañanitas
all is flor y canto
The horizon smiles with Issa
everything else
Becomes stupid.