March 10, 2011
wind carried cold
from grotto ghetto
to that secret
barrio space
where muralistas
channeling frieda
diego and zarraga
paint monuments
to the past
to lives not lived
and anything else
eyes itch to see.
cold curled up next
to the frescos
hoping its frigidity
would halt
the desecration.
wind didn’t wait
or politely beg.
it whipped cold
about the place
howling
as callow concrete
workers, intending
to giant buddharize
people’s art,
found will power
dissolving
before the heat
of wind’s cold anger.
