Quetzalcoatl
Go park the car.
The night manager hands the key.
The ice chest / the night mechanic.
Radio all old cassettes and Beethoven.
The summer sand in the beach towel
sticks in vomit.
One carpet that has no color.
The brown steam rises to your shirt,
your belly and breasts under me.
And the rug is brown.
The water rises to meet you.
I am. We are.
We walk around,
we burn someday.
This morning over our balcony
I hear a bird. A bird
shits out feathers on me.