Who are we to men

Men are who to we

Are we who men to San Fernando.

Is San Fernando a tome, one hundred and ninety three

stranded valises b’neath (let’s count them)

four-hundred and seventy or more than five hundred trees—

Álvar Nuñéz and a huge cow head

dancing westward.

So boxes twined up;

an attempt to un-name or un-tame

or un-exert self in the the

Already spin out

already trundle

Here we tussle at the outskirts, a long view of your face:

before were seventy-two trees, wrestled in the spit,

split.

This humidity on skin,

this control project loss,

loses (we couldn’t count,

we the un-naming).

We is not nosotros.

Nosotros no es un vado (la naturaleza insegura de:

we exerts failure.

We exert failure.

Lo hemos ingerido por los poros, los portales.

A port closes. A portal denuded, like the trees.

Fracaso hemos aquí.

Later that we become, on our own authority,

a doctor of medicine, we employed by a Mexican

general on boundary concerns, based at Matamoros,

practice medicine in a quite honorable unselfish manner,

finally we perish  (truly)

crossing the river of San Fernando, summer 1851.

ya ya ya

ya ya ya

ya ya ya

ya ya ya

Lo que sobra: