[Thinking of Rand McNally: Affectionate Theft]

In the neon cross of afteryears, fire the wisdom of children, the children of grace, the children of Solomon’s bend. We are after the cinnamon dawn, the angle of jealous repose, the visions of generous bite. Is it any wonder we wrangle the nights of catastrophe, with withering flight?

Mayatex
into your valleys
Mayatex
around your bends
Mayatex
down by your rivers
Mayatex
under your oceans
Mayatex
over your skies
Mayatex
singing your mountains
Mayatex
breathing your trees
Mayatex
drumming your bodies
Mayatex
praying your dreams