Mountain Building

The mountain have changed to buildings Is this hallway the inside of a stem That has a rattling flower for a head, Immense tree bark with roots made out of Mailboxes? In the vertical village moons fly out of Apartment windows and though what you See is a modern city The mountain’s guitars pluck inside It’s agriculture taking an elevator Through urban caves which lead to Paths underground They say Camuy To Hutuado Taino subground like the IRT in Constant motion The streets take walks in your dark eyes Seashell necklaces make music in the Origin of silence What are we stepping on? Pineapple Fields frozen with snow Concrete dirt later the rocks of the Atlantic The sculpture of the inner earth Down there where you thought only worms And unnamed crocodiles parade Lefty stands on a corner Analyzing every seed Squeezing the walls as he passes Through at the bottom of the basement Where the boiler makes heat The flesh arrives out of a hole In the mountain that goes up like a Green wall Bodies come in making maraca sounds An invisible map out of the flora Bees arrive in the vicinity and sing Chorus while woody woodpeckers make Women out of trees and place flowers On their heads Waterfalls like Hurakan’s faucets Caress the back of Yuquiyu God to all whose tongues have the Arawak’s echoes Hallway of graffiti like the master Cave drawings made by owls when they Had hands You see the fish with pyramids inside Their stomachs Hanging near the doorways where San Lazaro turns the keys Villa Manhattan Breeze of saint juice made from Coconuts Slide down the stairs to your Belly and like a hypnotized guanabana You float down the street And win all your hands at dominoes The Moros live on the top floor eating Roots and have a rooster on the roof Africans import okra from the bodega The Indians make a base of guava On the first floor The building is spinning itself into a spiral of salsa Heaven must be calling or the Residents know the direction Because there is an upward pull If you rise too quickly from your seat You might have to comb a spirit’s Hair They float over the chimneys Arrive through the smog Appear through the plaster of Paris It is the same people in the windowed Mountains.