The beach is lined with coarse, dark rocks,
surfers paddle in from the sun, smoke and spit, drip
salty snot. Up the high-rise faceless maids wipe panes
of glass, lean out to reach that one dirty spot.

Lima is a desert, green trees an illusion,
dust sneaks through the windows,
whispers of its origins,
pulling us each back to where we belong.

Take a bus from the center,
the buildings sink lower, hovel closer
together, dusty shacks rotting on mountains
of sand. Blue plastic and wrappers glint like silver
in water the fog left behind.

Lima is where I came for salvation.
I stare out the window from the hard
maroon couch, lukewarm coffee mug in my hands,
my chest bursting against the skin.

Up at the cliffs they’re jumping off,
catching air and flying, soaring
above us with pregnant
parachute wings. I’m gliding
out over the ocean, my feet
on dusty ground, waiting for the rain
that never comes.

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