salar |
|
it’s no use burying my head in the sand: the earth is hard and salt |
surire |
|
place of ñandú, suri, flamingos |
sourire |
|
knee-deep in the steaming lake which curves like a souring smile |
ñandús |
|
bury their heads in the silt and fossick for… "like tiny |
langostas |
|
which eat flamingos" according to our guide, |
Sergio |
|
after which the mountains are a dessert |
des servir |
|
of orange and banana sponge, topped with |
pistachio |
|
blancmange, ananás, massive trifles towering above the |
altiplano |
|
where squeezing your head in its vice, |
soroche |
|
as wind throttled the tent, ice-fisted blasting the night |
raro |
|
air as clear as space and thin as starlight hammered in your head, |
ringo |
|
despite Yoko, singing Good Night on an album which was apple |
surgía |
|
sudden as a ghostly voice, the radio. Burying my head in the darkness |
muermas |
|
did nothing, but transform me: |
pajero |
|
tiny peanut windbag in the vast indifferent desert. A species of sublime. |
