It was dusk for kilometers and bats in the lavender sky,  / /       like spiders when a fly is caught, began to appear. / / And there, not the promised land, but barbwire and barbwire /   /       with nothing growing under it. I tried to fly that dusk / / after a bat said la sangre del saguaro nos seduce. Sometimes /       I wake and my throat is dry, so I drive to botanical gardens / /   / / to search for red fruit clutched to saguaros, the ones at dusk /       I threw rocks at for the sake of slashing hunger. / /   / / But I never find them here. These bats say speak English only. /       Sometimes in my car, that viscous red syrup / / clings to my throat, and it’s a tender seed toward my survival: /   /       I also scraped needles first, then carved those tall torsos / / for water, then spotlights drove me and thirty others dashing /       into palos verdes, green-striped trucks surrounded us, / /   / / our empty bottles rattled and our breath spoke with rust. /       When the trucks left, a cold cell swallowed us.