Today we went to la feria, rows of corncobs, fresh pescado (fish off the coast of Chile, todo fresco), peaches, tomatoes 200 pesos/kilo, crates of soily potatoes and peapods, even yellow-red mangos, shampoo, cheetah-print underwear, the crisp Andes in our hair, the clear air swirling around I feel so far south, I mean I can sense the equator above my head when I lay, toes pointed towards the icy sur…
North could be East; South–West.
every atom under the sun, its own nucleus.
We fried three fish in oil, eaten on some abandoned beach whose shore had been pushed between two cliffs to create a sandy half-moon, a perfect tongue of blue lolling ever farther once the sun hit noon. beer and salted, lemoned salad, todo rico.
I rest silent, earth under my palms. oh, and how I love. how deep it runs.
a radiant sapphire sky emphasizes los diamantes that hang stagnant but buzzing,
suspended over our heads like streetlamps in the pinched fingers of God.
in this land time drips away.
the most amount of stars–alas, the ocean and I are drunk on them.
standing here staggering, kicking up cool sand, the moon shaking to reach my feet.
I remember when we measured in hours of the day, chocolate cake on porcelain and swirled coffee, sun dusting windowpanes, shower steam, all the sweet patterns that held me together.
But Chile, in her longitude and vastness, her weeping beauty and Santiago barrios, where mountains are hands, cupping and releasing our unquiet minds onto stretches of sand and houses, onto open roads through a city that fiercely loves, we drive all the way Up South, and up, and up.
Through the Rye 