Cenote, grab the sun.
Twist its flashing blade
into the gaping innards
of our mother. These tunnels
are mind-shafts, screaming
spear kisses on foreheads.
The drone that follows each
touch. Don't touch. Don't you
dare little brother. With your
hair little brother, unaware
little brother. You'll kill these
living things with one fingertip,
steal the secret of the dripstones
and all the restless festering
of each last Mayan vigil held
inside of the inframundo.
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