Bach. Small village after village I come closer
to the drama of polluted potable water.
The evening star will fall
getting out at the other end
of the world. A crater in the day.
Abdullah Ibrahim. Open door. Smell
of nickel and evolution gone awry
which I rented to send it back
through its time. A somnolent township
where the globe under me viciously breaks.
On the road - terror of yellow sodium light,
color of stuffy geography classes -
I smell the savanna in the drowsy night
fading out as the slow drum of a Bushman
in my spooky rearview mirror.
Now there is still Elisabeth Eybers. She tells
how I survive my hypnoses of silence
with machetes of stacked miracles.
Next I feel the butt of a riffle:
god to ask where I am. And whom with.