en los extremos de la tierra

it's not the heat:

that burns away all

excess, down to

chemical purity

so what he breathes is

scorched and clean-

this is the last place he will go,

and better for it to be blameless.

better for it, really,

the jungle discordance

back in hidden times

and when those men came

out of the green they spoke

his language, and he

became important then.

here he understands nothing.

and when evening comes

roaring up the way

home lies, the charred

blue darkening at its

furthest edge before all

memory collapses in

a dutiful sigh-

he looks up and sees

only refraction, green

night-vision, the way he

must seem from above.

very small and

all alone.

better for it,

here in this

last place.