So here I go in the famous Spanish slowness.
Clouds advance in their relentless armada—
(Thornton Wilder once said it takes a year 
to get a letter from Spain). Soon, it will be time 
for us to start a little late, Aloysi will flip 
the switches for the circuit breakers. The cathedral 
will be lit. The Metro will rumble. The poor 
will line up for their bags of food. The masses
will pray and shout into their cell phones, 
waiting for their handout. Aloysi will preach, 
the bishop will sing, and I’ll hold out 
the money plate. Indefinitely, here, I belong. 
Earth floats, cantilevered, and my bishop’s eye,
dead, reddens, might be cut out, does not track,
and floats in the world now like part of a mobile.