Elephant's Graveyard Poem by Morgan Michaels

So, here it is:
the end of the journey, all that chilly sweat,
of quagmires breached, of tendrils torn and elbowed aside,
glassy centipedes, mosquitoes, sizey as birds,
able to drain small children in one draught,
turbine-loud and winjing with thirst;

Venomous snakes everywhere you step off
pards clearing their throats, the glowing eyes
of hyenas circling the campfire;
flying foxes, living caprices out some equatorial Goya,
with good, sharp teeth and copious saliva.

Malaria, fever, hunger, diarrhea-
Harkening to hearsay, it being found on no map,
in a language not your own, by a treacherous guide.
All the stuff of legend, rather, even fantasy.
Suddenly,

though seen never before, you distinguish it-
a clearing untapped by the fierce midday sun
where it's cool, blue-shadowed, and you hear the chanting of waters
like the heaven of Islam, and straightaway you see-nothing.
The floor sparkles with pinkish diamonds:
All preternaturally still.

But then...