beneath a Copper moon

i slept in the Victoria Hotel
down in old Mexico
and walked on handmade tiles
colored in deep indigo.

Eliot wasn't on my floor
nor was he at the bar
listening to the young gringo
strumming on an old guitar.

i heard he was swimming
in a pool without a sound
with a handful of wasteland dust
i remembered he once found.

he was wearing a huge sombrero
pulled tightly against his cheek
with a slip knot fully made
still showing the receipt.

my margarita had no salt
but i drank it all the same
to not offend the bartender
who asked me for my name.

a Spanish lady with the melons
she was proposing to sell
approached the nervous tourist
ringing the front desk bell.

i came to walk Copper canyon
so deep it smelled of death
where spirits wore historic masks

to take away your breath.

a train would leave the station
soon maybe the next day
and though tempted by those melons
i knew i shouldn't stay.

my coach was full of writers
down on their luck & drunk
on mescal which they all consumed
until their voices shrunk.

we stopped above the canyon walls
& began the long decent
into darkness at highest noon:
i wondered what it meant!

i heard the hidden waterfall
a primitive, lovely tune
and supped on poetry endless
beneath a Copper moon.