He is Indio. He fed on thistle, pine and
blue milk; the fore milk, the thirst milk.
Saffron milk, the hind milk. Rich.
He is the sun.
He is scar-faced and nicotine stained,
with tigers above and tigers below.
Superior to the night I feed his image
saffron cakes and lotus.
Tight in his hands, the valleys, the peaks,
the caverns below. The grasp of the now,
the pull of the late.I am constant.
His tiger mother.
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