Asleep In Capilla El Dorado

Resin pellets spark
clouds inside the airport chapel
& a priest marks time,
swinging the copal boat’s chain.
Inside me, a baby.
We’ve fallen into a void so I count.
Coin droppings in the rusted box & jet
roars gauge how long. A yellow-black & red-
toothed woman hobbles
up & down pews selling grilled
cobs & smiles. I hide from the shrine’s
balcony where the closed-eyed faithful
pray in delirium.
The aromatic fog doesn’t insulate
shapes pushing through chapel doors
& we’re found.