One discarded slip of food
and I feed the thousand minute
faces smiling from dark sand.
The ants spiral around my palm
like little black angels, like I am 
a generous god, offering proof.

Sweet ash, the tourists come
smogged out by thin cigarettes
to gather around crumbs of art,
bluebird tiles on the wall, the gates
who arch open to heaven’s garden:
roses larger than my head.