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.