It was the first of January-
a clear, dry, hyper-absorbent day.
Sunshine streamed in through the windowpane.
As the strains of a symphony waned
I sat, travelogue in hand, thinking
'Vida breva est'
What land shall we visit next?
At what pink Bishopric (think Elizabeth)
At what far-flung corner of a world once green
should we exercise next our superior
gifts for observation, irony?
Checking my watch
I noted a splash of sunlight on the rug:
predicted its path along the floor;
in how long the flowery form
would overspill its verge;
Where should we go, banking
against life's many uncertainties
insuring a kind of equity?
And having faith (too much) in fate,
I let the book fall.
Face down, it opened to the Peru
Id never seen, though wishing to:
its steaming vision of a river
(like an angel on its side? *)
with its tributary streams
where dreams grew to edible scale
and the towns it brownly watered:
homes of the shrouded Inca
Iquitos, Pevas, Cochaquinas,
could all be seen from an air-conditioned ship
with a side trip to Machu-Pichu
for those qualifying healthwise.
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