Near Lima

There you are, face up on an open plain,

following the reeling flight of carrion-hawks

sweeping in circles, the dark outlines of their wide wings

distinct against a cloudless sky.

 

I read somewhere most of us, day-to-day,

rarely raise our eyes more than fifteen degrees

above the horizon. Here tonight,

nowhere near Lima, each weary pedestrian       

 

focuses on straight-ahead except

at street corners, where we turn our heads.

The yellow-lit windows

of the buildings tightly hem

 

and I admit I only look up now because

I’m thinking of you, I find it dizzying when I do, 

the yawning weight of that cathedral-domed,

bruised-purple sky, wheeling on.