From "Into the Atacama"
When I said I wished this trip, I meant the rush of song
as we left the city. I meant the bus. I meant the woman who
played her flip-fl ops like drum sticks against the window.
For singing with strangers in a desert is like getting closer
to the moon. And the glow of a moment is like a moon,
caught behind clouds and then visible and then hidden again.
Related Subjects
Poetry