If the taxista, Don Jesús, was right,
our planet simply recycles itself
as we perish, congealed in amber bright
island sun and time slide off the clouded shelf.
Timeshares for me? I’m just chillin’, hermano,
I just want to kick back and watch women
flailing rhythms in the water guano
falling from their eyes – where is Chris Colón?
We need that first and most feral tíguere
dance instructor giving lessons a trueque
espejitos por oro, bartered bruises
when sky meets sea the time confuses
Until we meet again. Until we meet
Against the world’s  mirror we meet defeat.