Arequipa

Leaves that fall.

Ought to breed

Fire from stone.

The world counts

On our fall.

Our solitude interests

The butterflies

And the lost gold

Of the afternoons.

Ochre and blue walls

And the fading peaks

Of volcanoes

And the sunlight

Plummeting beyond

The hills waken

Leaves to their

Lost trees.

To discover

You still have

A world

To make

At sunset

Sobers

The stones.