The Dictators

    An odor he sugarcane:

    a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating

    petal t brings nausea.

    Bet palms the graves are full

    of ruined bones, of speectles.

    te dictator is talking

    op s, gold braid, and collars.

    tiny palace gleams like a ch

    and th gloves on

    cross t times

    and join the dead voices

    and ths freshly buried.

    t be seen, like a plant

    wh,

    .

    red has grown scale on scale,

    bloly er of the swamp,

    full of ooze and silence