Two vendors smile in the heat, and offer green mangoes with hot sauce. 
	Last night we saw a performer gulp gasoline and blow fire. 
	The word is coming over a static radio criticizing the president for an illegal third term.
	Plants lining the street shake with growth

	The Municipal buildings have 
	raw metal re-rod protruding from the top of poured concrete columns. 
	They give the structures a haunting feel, as if they have long nails clawing at the sky.
	The rod is waiting for when those elusive public improvement funds from the Red Cross come for adding another story. 

	Here, tumulos (speed bumps) rise sharply from cracked concrete streets in every small town. 
	Tumulos that have the bump worn down to a few metal re-rod that our truck knocks together.
	In the center, there may be 5-15 tumulos on the same road
	Forcing a shift down to first. 

	There are temporary tumulos. 
	Those made of 3” thick dock rope cut into 10’ sections and laid across the highway next to construction sites. 
	The San Pedro Sula to Tegucigalpa route is being widened to accommodate a flourishing truck trade.
	At the top of the Siquetepeque hill, in one of those construction zones is the charred engine block of a tractor trailer. 
	Only the block and those strips of metal necessary to hold it still remain.  

	On the side of the road there stretches a 30’ strip of dirt 
	Where the excavators dig a bed for a new lane of pavement.
	The machines tear at the edges of small tin and concrete houses
	lining the highway

	On a mountain and underneath mango tree foliage, vines, and two inches of moss and lichen
	a forty-year-old six-inch steel pipe directs an artery of racing water 
	tying a village of 12,000 to the mountain’s heart. 

	I am that stretched out, 
	pale collection of limbs that awkwardly juts a bowed head 
	and hunched back from Honduran ground.

	I stumble over the landscape and the language.