First finished poem of this trip. If it’s a little confusing, re-read the Cuzco posts – http://heathenscripture.wordbuzz.com.au/2009/10/23/altitude-sickness/
Jimmy Cuzco and the Sacred Valleys
There is no hand that will hold you like this place.
Its lights are the copper eyes of the dead
and you know you’ll take a trail of smoke with you when you go.
Marching up over the hills are fire ants with colonial dreams.
And downwards there are bars,
dark corners tasting of your own salt
and the beers lined up like cathedrals.
No-one has earned this –
not by becoming soil
nor relocating history brick by brick.
A town where even your excesses are holy,
walking home as the first bells start to ring.
The pinhole street is empty save the dogs,
its cobbles and your feet caught in broken conversation.
The steps are fast with canine parodies of joy
and from church to church is a beam of prayer
so strong you’d snap to x-ray if you touched it.
God made your mouth. He knows how many fillings you have.
No fan of dentistry
the gaps left up to him don’t fill so smooth.