Ouroboros,

Matamoros,

Sangria spills as I stub my bare toe on concrete steps.

A flap of proudflesh waggles as the blood comes welling out.

The ants will eat it tomorrow.

Greedy little hormigas.

Amigos.

Cannibalistic rites whereby I identify

with the godhead

have been reduced to a thin

weak cracker and a thimble

of dry wine.