Back through Mustang Crossing and
then some, hit the dirt and then the place of sleep.
Two locks on the front door get past them again,
go through it again. Turn. See the sky.

The lightning is all in what they call Mexico.

When I was a joven, the nortena was the side of freedom.
Make it across. Find a job. Land of opportunity. Relative wealth.
But it worked both ways don’t forget. If you got in a jam here
then you fled there, where the tinyhands of the law couldn’t reach.

Life is not cool enough right now to paint a film noir.

I don’t have to explain that it all fell apart.
Cross now and If you live it’s in an ice cage, child, become an orphan.
Seek freedom in the other direction and a database will yank you back.
But yet. In symbol. The cracking arcs in the dark flash meanings.

It is the job of the poet to suss and tell. Thus:

‘There is a land where the warmer air is liberty still;
it remains electric blue on the other side of bright night.
The hopeful promise of it is too far away to hear.
The clutching faithless reality too close up, to deny.