In Bogotá Poem by michael hogan

In Bogotá they drink Arabica pure;
the waiter dispenses hot milk
to cut the caffeine rush
that jerks the brain into overdrive
and would carry it over the edge.
Just as driving in the mountains
as the bus careens around the bend
of the clear cliff face where

1,000 meters down orchids bloom on
windblown trees near the canyon bottom,
one sees a roadside image of the Virgin
her arms spread wide as if to set
the spinning bus back on its springs

and does.
So that while not believing in miracles
exactly
although one prayed (silently
so as not to seem a fool or coward)
in the thin air
at the trickiest spine of the Sierras

one knows somehow
that always at the edge
even when there are no guardrails
there are.
Which is why this morning
in a dream where I was falling
did in fact fall as violet
and violent orchids gathered at the canyon bottom
(Arabica blaze in the wakening brain)
I woke safely in your circling arms.