Ruth Thalia writes to the poet

  today I heard the capitol catch



fire     like a burning bush



      all I could see were ground glass and



sun      it was the FARC   I assume  since



sendero is dead even though homes 



in Lima still shine in a myelin



sheath    insects on their  backs



  under tearing star



      at  least that is what I 



see   from here      like a million 



trembling stitches on a floor rug    



 



 



      I can also see capitalism     DOUBLE 



JEOPARDY    and the answer:   What is



trite         ca-pi-ta-lis-mo     I can hear



    it is a white sphere   so smooth



I want to stroke   with



vibrating fingertips    string it  



onto a thread    wear it like a cross 



perched always between my 



breasts     keep it moist    screen its golden



eyes from  the stubbled capitol



shifting between relapse and   remission



        viscous black splotches wave from



silvery column      physicians have



diagnosed     so I’ve been told    the



ailment        confusion of self and non-



self       and are beginning administration  



of a cure          oh   why do you keep  



pulling at your scalp          lab coats always



reminded me of Miraflores      of Dracula



of mountains of lime



 



 



once I threw two handfuls



at my face       stood at the center of



the highway at the foot of my home



and almost thought I felt



my heart    beat white      tightroping



along the yellow painted line   I walked



in silence until midnight 



 



     to my left waves fell   silhouettes



of piled trash became far red hills



and the road smelled of salt and beer 



     alive       you and I   looked



at the world sideways and



missed all the shapes I now see



   from above and below