“Simple, you were not born here. 
You were born in the land of sun and cacti.”
Isn’t the sun everywhere?

“Look, there are lines.”
What are the lines drawn with?
“The lines were drawn before us.”
And do they work?
“Well, I can live with an open window.” 
So why are the muscles beneath your smile
like pulled taffy straining from your toes?

“We can not change them.”
Look, here’s a pen.
“You do not understand.”
I already know how a machine works,
how to repair one.

I can see the royal blue that morphs with age.
“What?”
I stand above the sangria that soaks my earth.
“What?” 
How do I look through your light eyes?

“I answered your question.”
Did you answer theirs?
“It is simple.”
So why then Papá—
Must we search for wilting miracles in the sky?

“It is–”
Is it?