No other wind pitches through here
like the type akin to the deputyís daughter;
her pulse running cold; youíll feel its tempo;
earth stopper; even the air will taste like her.
Donít look that one in the eye, amigo.
You watch her dance, then every highway
plants its end at her doorstep.
That isnít the only magic this girl knows:
senorita plants kisses in dust fields
to tint her twilight flower; men see god
when they sip that wanton nectar.
Sit back; drink another brew, than another,
tonight sheíll break your bones one last time;
next round's on me, amigo.
© 2003 Pedro Trevino-Ramirez. All rights reserved.
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