Somewhere in Patagonia

1 October 2010

It surrounds me the vernacular, the buzz of your land,
when lights go on uptown, all hot and lovely.
We enter a vapour of enchantment, the mind forged,
all quarters pleasurable, becalmed; as though

when the lights go on uptown, all hot and lovely,
nightmares rush out, falling over themselves,
all quarters pleasurable, becalmed; as though
we never understand the lovely panic; how many times

nightmares rush out, falling over themselves,
where people are people, some alone, others together.
We never understand the lonely panic; how many times
in the dim light, we feel the knot, search the leftovers,

where people are people, some alone, others together
like spectral drops on the pavement.
In the dim light we feel the knot, search the leftovers:
a map of love, a deserted beach, a creel of stars.

Like spectral drops on a pavement,
stuck between strangers, your hands make treasure:
a map of love, a deserted beach, a creel of stars.
You mock instructions and forms to the point of celebration.

Stuck between strangers, your hands make treasure.
We enter a vapour of enchantment, the mind forged.
You mock instructions and forms to the point of celebration.
It surrounds me the vernacular, the buzz of your land.

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