Eight months by bike In the Andes, Reading Von Humboldt. Leather boots ripped By a lacerating grime. Shivers of night flies, And hope for survival. A pitched tent In the vivid forest. The market logic Of the adjutting hills. The salmon colored sunsets. I prayed in a cave church, Where iguanas Sang hissing lullabies. When the frost Lifted in the pampas The wheels turned again. After healing jaundice, Eyes rimmed with ointment, Off to Cuzco, With a satchel of poems. One evening waiting, With the fish monger, In the harbor, Under the prowl. Dark maidens Soothing and inventive. The mermaid drowning, Newly remembered, Speaking from the grave, As the after effect Of word games. The peasant girl, Of honest intellect And slender waist, With the laughing wrinkles, And her ubermensch, Picking olives. Could this just be Some referential Of the morning star. A Trappist homily. Bread on the table In a copper plate. A premonition Of the afterlife In a cherished spring. Some monument To my undoing That vaguely arises. Or is this history In all its slithering form, Repeating the coils, Of its serpentine Lore. A journey beyond And in between, With a boat built for passage Trawling me along, In the misty dawn, In sight of my mother’s Home.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Jul 2014 23:01:32 +0000
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