We’re shaken from sleep,
from the momentum of exhaustion’s steep grade.
The endless buses that pave the way,
finally halt to let us relieve
in fields of purple quiet
over the Peruvian desert.
East and West are forgotten signposts
hobbled in the salons of dusty depots
strewn amidst shabby cities of sand
barely able to stand against arid hillsides,
parched of water.
There is barely a breath,
or an oasis within the depth
of an immeasurable sea,
where the sun, balanced on ridgelines
would walk across a great expanse for me.
It’s inconceivable how a journey through this landscape
could culminate at Macchu Picchu
and its lush well of mist.
Where you can grace an ancient wall and gaze out
over the breadth of the Andes,
into the secret depth of rivers.
life’s beginnings and endings
for worse or for better on paper
swirling together in vapor
lifting like a luminous breath
deep from within the mountain’s chest
to form along this rift an embrace,
what we built time will replace
with or without significance.
Yet to move through these portals with fortitude,
along passages and over tracks
where the speeding train attacks
the boredom and the repetition.
Another bus pulling out of a tiny plaza
towards that final position,
where the road finally falters
at four in the morning
and leaves what we’ll offer
upon Santa Maria and her broken alter.
All the pieces we scattered, haphazard
to form the forgotten places we’ll share
when looking back,
there was a harmony to the unknown,
though perilous when undefined,
it’s the only home we’ve ever known.