The llano was desert
'til the maguey goddess
sliced her eye open,
Giving birth to the river.
The water's the color
of pulque.
It drives men mad,
As it did Don Narciso,
Who drowned weighed down
by the weight of his gold.

The Avenue of the Dead
is lined with calaveras,
Papier-mâché skulls
of all colors.
A little altar stands
off the beaten path,
Lying among dilapidated
headstones....