Where Dandelions Grow

below, in my alley garden
of soiled diapers and flies
empty bottles of rum
and Spanish news, months old

broken clothes pins and records
of homeland boleros
pigeons dance to the drum
of rice and hard bread falling
from weathered hands, stories high

plastic prayer beads tossed
in lost faith
nestled under coins
meant for bodies of water
under palms far away
and unsent love letters
quartered by forgetting hands

and southern winds part
stem from seeds
that skim bits of history
and carry them off into pages
unwritten and wary of
a setting sun.

Z.D.