THIS IS SANITATION

For luck I swab the puss from my
good eye with a rotten pig hoof.
For the foul steam swelling over
the flaccid folds of neck skin drooping

down the putrid crowd’s back,
leaves are now sodden. Each
reveler is bare to the waist.
All dance and slobber around
the trash fire lit near
the half-finished cathedral.
The plaza’s dust balls with spittle.

Revelers are burning their shirts.
The fire sparks green with the dead
skin and salt-packed fabric of
this spring’s planting. Some dance
balancing sticky-fingered children
on their damp shoulders. Others
further back rub burnt pig snouts
on their children’s faces for luck.

Even beggars have come
to lay bare for the crowd
their sweating potbellies.